Hostage
by Shnlock
Summary: AU: John and Sherlock meet whilst hostages in a bank robbery. Eventual Sherlock/John. Rated M for swearing, torture, and smut. Part 2 in development. Moriarty wants to say hi.
1. Chapter 1

**AU where Sherlock and John meet as hostages from a bank robbery in their twenties. Will romance occur? **

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

John stepped into the bank knowing something was about to go wrong.

He didn't know why; but as if an electrical current had struck him, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention, pricking his skin like static.

Inwardly, he scolded himself. He was a grown man. He'd fought in a god damn war, for Christ's sake. He was the one who kept his cool when his best friends dropped like flies in the onslaught of bullets that rained down on them like an unearthly fire. Fear just wasn't an option, back then. Maybe, he thought, it was the expectation of danger that simply set his nerves alert; he was too used to living on the edge of destruction that now simple things like opening a bank account suddenly warranted a flash of fear.

The room he stood in was sparse of people; yet he analysed them quickly as he stepped up to the queue. Seven people in front of him, four cashiers, a woman and child using the inside cash machines. Eyes darting, he picked out the exits; pure force of habit, and felt his left hand curl instinctively as if he was grasping the butt of his old standard army gun. It was ridiculous – and he knew it – to be so wary of such an open and public place, that buzzed with life and throbbed with people.

Fresh from the war, John Watson was a real sight. His hair, bleached blonde from the pounding sun was slightly longer than he usually allowed it; it hung over his forehead in stylish disarray. Harry had always preferred him with long hair; the short, blunt cut the army had provided him with reminded her too much of their dad, John Watson Senior_. _

_Killed in action, _the newspapers had written, _a brave and honourable man, who gave his life to protect his squadron._

And if he was perfectly honest; John disliked his own short hair also – remembering the countless times the tips of his ears were scorched red by the harsh Afghanistan sun.

His eyes, although weary, were a piercing blue. They shone out from the hammocks of his eyes and glistened, quite remarkably. His skin; brown, and smooth, was barely wrinkled save to the corners of his eyes, where constant squinting had left deep furrows.

It was safe to say; as a man of only 24, John Watson was a handsome man.

He squared himself, coming to his senses, and followed the queue forward, as they shuffled along in sync. 'Skittish' just wasn't in his nature, and he had no intention of adding it to the list just yet.

But… he was being watched.

A man, hunched over a chair sat not far from where John stood, his grey eyes narrowed in something more than confusion.

_Intrigue?_

Knowing better than to goad the man, John returned his gaze to the cashiers; just a couple more people to go and he would be able to address one of them. After, he would go and see Harry; she was taking him out for lunch somewhere so he could meet her new beau. Clara, was it? John sighed inwardly, remembering how exaltation would rack his squadron every time letters were handed out; crisp and clean – fresh from the soft hands of their blushing girlfriends back home. He himself had never received such a letter; and often was on the receiving end of the running joke he was too soon be handed a "Dear John,"

It hurt like an open wound to think he had already had one.

Risking a look over his shoulder, he caught the staring man's gaze and raised an eyebrow, as if to challenge him. The man was fairly young, younger than he; perhaps twenty or twenty one years of age. His expression was stern, but not overtly threatening – a soft crease between his eyebrows and the dip of the corner of his mouth displaying his emotions.

The man was also _bloody gorgeous._

John caught himself suddenly, and felt a blush rise in his cheeks, realising a few seconds too late that the man had actually _winked at him. _He shuffled awkwardly, and his mouth twitched into a smile, before he looked away hurriedly, taking interest in the fabric of his too-long sleeves and willing away the heat in his face.

Apparently not discouraged, the man's eyes raked John's body, the slim fit of his jeans, the tight material of his t-shirt, the baggy give of his maroon cardigan; uncaring as to how he looked as if he was practically undressing the older man in the middle of the bank.

John stepped forward with the queue, and when his eyes flickered up to search for the man, he found to his dismay a pillar blocked his view. _Fuck it. _He blew out a breath, and stepped up to the cashier – a woman with a wide and friendly face, putting on his most charming smile.

"Hello, I'd like to-"

He didn't get much further before a gunshot sounded, and screams ricocheted through the air.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock took his place on one of the wooden chairs adorning the side of the bank, giving him a generous view of everyone who was to walk through the door. Vibration against his leg signalled another, _another_, text from his infuriating older brother, whom he was enjoying ignoring.

Settling back, his eyes roamed yet another customer.

_Lady in her thirties, currently in a civil partnership with a woman she doesn't know is still smoking, the two dogs in her care are not hers; perhaps her mothers? Ah yes, the tired eyes, how she checks her phone, the unconscious way she rubs the bracelet she owns. It's too expensive for her to have bought it for herself, a gift then. The style says bought by a female, there are scratches on the clasp of the chain indicating a previous, right handed owner – the lady here is obviously left handed, as is her partner going by the bite marks on the left side of this woman's neck (her lover would hold her neck with her left hand, leaving the left side of the woman's neck exposed), her mother then. Creases on the woman's skirt say hospital chairs, so it's not looking good…_

Movement to the right of Sherlock's vision snaps him out of his revere with blustered eyes; another person has entered the bank. Slightly annoyed at being broken from his train of thought, he reluctantly surveys the newest addition to the bank crowd.

Oh, but _yes. _He certainly fit the description.

Twenty to twenty five year old man, on leave from the army due to his mother's nervous breakdown and his sister's incapability to look after her due to drink problems.

This was interesting. The man in question took up position in the queue Sherlock was but meters from, his intelligent kind eyes darting around the room with quick precision. Fascinated, Sherlock leaned up and rested his elbows onto his knees, clasping his slim hands in the prayer position and rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Was this man capable of robbing from this bank?

Most certainly.

But the real question was; was he _about to?_

The blue eyed man tilted his head and caught Sherlock's eyes over his shoulder, a faint tinge of pink colouring his cheeks. Testing the waters, Sherlock winked, and raised the corner of his mouth into a cheeky half smirk. The reaction he gained was completely unprecedented; the man looked away _in embarrassment?_ and began to fiddle almost coyishly with his sleeves.

What sort of a bank robber got _embarrassed?_

Sherlock growled, frustrated momentarily, and looked over the man's body. There was neither tell-tale bump of a gun along the man's muscular frame, nor the nervous twitch of a man whom was about to risk everything in order to raid the tills of an unsuspecting bank.

Scowling, he slumped back; his interest in the man thoroughly quenched.

But…

The gunshot behind him was deafeningly loud – it's echo like an explosion in Sherlock's ears.

He'd been to intend on the blue eyed man; the bank robbers must have come in through the back.

Now he was in trouble.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock flew from his chair and twisted, rapt; the sight of four men in balaclavas of varying colours, each of them holding rudimentary machine guns appearing within his line of sight. One of the men had his gun raised to the air, whilst another teetered forward to secure the doors.

"I want everybody down on the _fucking _ground!" The apparent leader cried; firing with vehemence a few more rounds into the ceiling for added affect.

Screams rung out and the people surrounding Sherlock sank to the floor, whimpering in fright. Sherlock himself stayed upright, deducing all he could with fisted hands. The black hoodies and obscured faces didn't leave a lot for him to go by, so his mind was working slower; trying in vain to pick up the smaller details...

The man with the red balaclava lowered his gun to aim directly at Sherlock's chest. To his shock, he realised he was the last one left standing.

_Ah_.

"Are you fucking deaf? I said get on the ground, or I'll shoot your head off, alright?" He yelled, storming forward menacingly, with malice in his eyes.

Suddenly, a warm grip surrounded Sherlock's forearm and he jerked in surprise, eyes shooting wide. It was the man from earlier with the kind blue eyes.

"Just do as they say, mate." He whispered as Sherlock watched the bob of the man's Adam's apple with a sudden fixation. "There's nothing you can do."

Sherlock was on the edge of muttering a very detailed, "On the contrary," when the grip on his forearm tightened. Reluctantly, he folded himself onto his knees, and was met with a gentle smile from the other man.

"I'm John," he murmured, having the nerve to stick out his hand. "Nice to meet you."

"Sherlock," came the reply. "Sherlock Holmes."

They shook hands briskly.

"Guess we're stuck here for a while," John sighed then chuckled gently, almost comically unafraid of the four masked gunmen patrolling the bank. "My sister's going to be _so_ pissed off with me…"

Sherlock leaned in closer, so they didn't have to raise their voices as much. John's smell was delightfully intoxicating, he found.

"You don't seem afraid…" He had meant to ask it as a question, but it came out as a statement. John shrugged.

"They've got their faces covered. If they meant to kill us all anyway they wouldn't have bothered with that, right? And besides," John's face lit up with a brilliant smile, revealing a row of perfect teeth. "I didn't really want to meet up with my sister anyway."

Sherlock's eyebrow shot upward, and he found himself smirking. How fascinatingly brilliant. He suddenly had the strangest feeling of wanting to impress the older man.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He queried. John's eyebrows rose so far up his face, they disappeared into his fringe.

"Afghanistan. Sorry – _how_ did you?"

"_RIGHT."_ It was one of their captors. Speaking with more profanities than should really be allowed with a small child in the room, (the mother of whom was clutching her to her chest), they were told, rather forthrightly, to gather in the corner.

As they rose to move, John's face became a blank mask; training from many a day in the army rebooting in his mind. Silently, he guided the women into the corner, murmurs of, "It's alright.", "It'll all be OK." spilling from his pursed lips. Once the women and child were seated, he positioned the men around them, in a protective circle. And as if by complete default; Sherlock ended up next to him.

"OI."

_Oh fuck, _was John's only thought, as a man in his forties stood defiantly by the edge of the crowd, eyes blazing. _There is always one._

"I want to know what the bloody hell is going on here!" He hissed; voice breaking slightly. Tilting his head, John could see his hands shaking, obviously terrified. The man was a truck driver, if the label, "Terry's Trucks" on his shirt was anything to go by; and wore a startling green name badge; 'Hi! My name is: _Richard ._'

"Do you really?" The man with the red balaclava asked, twisting to face the perpetrator, voice seething with condescension. "Do. You. _Really_?"

Richard blanched; sweat carving into his paling face. "I am a British Citizen, and I demand to know what is going on!"

_No, no, no. _John's inner monologue was screaming. _You don't want to be doing that._

John's inner monologue was correct. The man who had secured the door with thick chains and the man with the black balaclava, powered forward, equal amounts of malevolence like cold fire behind their eyes. Together, they each restrain one of Richard's arms, and pull him into the middle of the room, kicking and screaming in terror.

The Red Balaclava man prowls forward, then reaches into his pocket.

"This," he addressed the entire room, "is what happens to those who disobey us."

A flash of silver and then a cut off screech.

Richard squirms pitifully as the knife slides eloquently in between his ribs, and crimson red blood spills out onto his work shirt. A jerk as the knife is twisted, and left imbedded in Richard's body. Cruelty in the highest order; the men then began to beat at Richard's body, drawing out screeches of pain and pleas of mercy. Together, they pummelled and ground Richard into the floor, until the sounds recede, and the only noise was the sickening thud of fists against flesh.

The two robbers whom held him release their hold and watch in morbid silence as the lifeless body cascaded to the ground with a sickening _thump._

Without entirely knowing he was doing so, John inched himself closer to Sherlock's body until their sides ran flush together, frozen in abrupt shock, both of their eyes fixated on the still lump of what used to be someone who'd simply wanted to draw some money out.

"PHONES!" The red balaclava quivers as he speaks; his voice painfully loud in the silence of the room, which was broken only by occasional whimper and squeal of terror.

"I want all your phones, pagers, anything with an internet connection put in this bag, here!" He indicated the plastic bag he was brandishing in front of him.

"If we find out any of you are withholding your phones from us we will not hesitate in blowing your fucking brains out on to the wall, is that understood?"

Nobody spoke.

"Good."

Slinging the strap of his machine gun over his shoulder, he began to circle the group, nudging the hostages with his foot until they relinquished their mobiles. One or two were more reluctant than others, and were met with a threatening growl.

It wasn't long before he reached Sherlock and John.

John dove into his pocket and pulled out his mobile swiftly and efficiently and handed it over, his face a smooth mask of indifference. Sherlock on the other hand… his subtle fingers already having sent a message to Lestrade about the bank situation, suddenly realised how starved of information he was.

"You had better careful with my phone, it's a present from my brother." He huffed; as if this whole thing was a minor bother, "I'm sure wouldn't be pleased to know some fucked up robber had his hands all over it."

A beat of silence.

At first, the man didn't seem to know how to react, perturbed by Sherlock's blatant act against him. Then, with one abrupt movement, he struck Sherlock's thin jaw with impressive strength and accuracy. Sherlock sprawled backwards, pain exploding across his face, and blood bursting from his mouth. He rolled onto his side, coughing as the bloody trickled down his throat, and breathed deeply through the pain. Pressure on his lower body – the robber forcefully taking his phone from his pockets. The room was stunned into further silence.

Slowly, as the man moved away, John leaned forward, and ran his hand across the fallen man's face, checking the cut with medical precision.

As he did so, he missed the way the robber's dark eyes skimmed his face, in sudden recognition. If he had realised so, he might have been able to escape his fate; but, it seemed, he was too intent on Sherlock's face to notice.

The fallen man in question had cut the inside of his cheek against his teeth, and on further inspection John saw the jagged mark of a cut running along the pale expanse of Sherlock's cheek, where the robber's ring had sliced through the pale, unmarked territory.

"Bloody hell, mate." He hissed, rummaging in his pockets for a hankie, then demurely dabbed away the rivulets of blood on Sherlock's face. "What the hell do you think you're doing goading them like that?"

Sherlock murmured noncommittally, none too bothered as to the pain, and more intent on the way John's touch sent scorches of heat along his skin like a branding iron.

"Thhthhh-" He began, then hacked up a mouthful of blood before continuing. "Needdehd more… inforhmantion." He rasped, eyes locking with John's. To his surprise, his heart started to thrum just that bit faster when it came to his attention that John's blue eyes were wide with apparent worry.

John… _cared_ for him? This was entirely new information; but he had no time to process it, currently.

"Hhthh ring."

"His ring?" John echoed, eyebrows drawing together.

"Yethhhh."

Sherlock heaved and tried in vain to pull himself into a sitting position. John, alert as always, slid his arms around the younger man's waist and heaved him upwards, eyes widening with repressed delight as his hands came in contact with wiry muscle and delicate hips.

"Anthhh, his punching technique." Sherlock finished; as if he had been continuously speaking all along.

"Sorry, what?"

"Youhh-"

A loud bang disturbed the moment, and John's arms unconsciously tightened around the dark haired youth's waist, instead of dropping them like he perhaps would have normally.

Explosives; stream upon stream of the fire-red wires enclosed the walls of the bank room with horrifying finality. A small, portable video camera on a tripod was being set up with careful attention. The four men moved purposefully; darting from place to place like quicksilver – each with their own personal intent.

The tallest of the four called for silence, and the room's hushed murmurs lapsed. The red light on the portable camera blazed, and beside it, a laptop hummed into life.

"You can address me as Mad Dog." It was the man with the red balaclava speaking. He stood as if he was addressing the Queen; back straight, hands clasped behind his back in what appeared to be a polite notion.

Withering adrenaline coursing through his veins, Sherlock sunk into John's side, head finding rest on John's shoulder.

After he received a nod in the affirmative from his accomplice working the video camera, Mad Dog continued, "Our demands are simple," His dark eyes bored holes into the circular glass of the video camera. "Jim Moriarty is to be freed from the Government's control, and to be handed over today at six o'clock sharp. Otherwise…"

Mad Dog stepped smoothly to one side, his intent to reveal the mass of bewildered hostages that lay behind him in clusters to the camera.

"…We detonate the explosives and all these people get blown sky high. We have already sacrificed one of our hostages for our cause…"

A step in the opposite direction, revealing the crumpled, bloody body.

"… And we will not hesitate to torture, or murder them one by one, should you try to stop us."

There was a pause; the blinking lights of the laptop the singular movement. On closer inspection, John could see they had opened some sort of web-cam interface, which they were using to contact whomever they were addressing. The laptop was too far away for John to see clearly the man sitting, receiving this conversation on the screen, but he could make out the fine lines of a suit, and the pale globe of a face.

It was a moment before the reply came.

"_You have to understand, we cannot simply free Jim Moriarty into your hands..."_

Sherlock's uninterested ears suddenly pricked up, and he raised his head. "I know that voice."

"… _He is the most wanted man in the whole of Europe – to let him go for the sake of a few civilians…" _The sound of a muted whisper and the rustle of paper, "…_is not something we would be willing to carry through."_

Heart-felt sobs rack the woman who is nursing her child to her side, and the assortment of hostages shuffled closer, each evaluating their own lives, whilst pitying this poor woman, who was now faced with the death of her child as well as herself.

Almost in glee, a repulsive sneer like a knife wound spread across Mad Dog's face. It was as if he'd anticipated such an answer. He clapped his hands to one side, and two of the balaclava-ed men surged forward, their eyes singling out John amongst the crowd; who stiffened in shock.

Together, they systematically detained an arm each. As they dragged him up, he kicked out, trying to wriggle free, and received a blinding punch in the stomach for his efforts. Pain exploded in his gut. For a short man, he was undoubtedly strong, but there wasn't a hope in hell he could take two men twice the size of him.

And if he could; where would he go?

Slumped in pain, the men dragged him forward and forced him onto his knees beside Mad Dog. His arms were wrenched behind him and tied together with a zip tie. Head against his chest, John's breathing spiked, and he worked to calm it before ruefully passed out. What did they want with _him_, of all people?

"When you say 'civilians'…" Mad Dog drawled, beginning to stroll in lazy circles around his captive. "Do you include the son of a war hero in that category?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I know the summary said "bank **_**robbery"**_** and this is clearly not a robbery any more, but I wanted to throw you guys off a bit, and believe what Sherlock and John thought was happening until the reveal. No regrets. **

**xxxxx**

John felt an unyielding hand fist in his hair, and his head was ripped back, exposing his face to the camera. He cried out in sudden pain, then bit his lip, stoically refusing to let go any more. His face was obstinate to those who looked at it.

"What will people think when it gets out _John Watson Junior, _"He spat the name, as if it was a derogatory term, "The man who stood along side his father and saved the lives of his comrades, only to see his father shot down beside him… What will they think when they find out he died, tragically, oh so tragically, due to the Government's lack of cooperation, _hm_?"

The hand in John's hair released him, and his head fell forward once more. Where the hand had gripped, a stroking sensation took its place; fingers weaving through strands with a gentle touch. John shuddered.

There came no reply from the laptop.

"What will they think, when the newspapers report him found _bloody-"_ With renewed strength, he backhanded John across the cheek, who toppled down onto his side without the use of his arms, head smacking violently against the floor.

"_Beaten-" _Mad Dog lashed out and threw his foot into John's side, who arched away in pain, white light shooting over his eyes. In stricken terror he tried to squirm away, but the restraining arms returned and he was held in place as more kicks shunted his body.

"-And degraded?"

Mad Dog's voice, heavy with exertion, drew his foot up over John's face, in preparation to mash it into the ground.

"_NO!" _

At the sound of Sherlock's voice, John's eyes fluttered open. Sherlock stood erect at the front of the crowd, chest heaving. His voice sounded like it had been ripped from his chest.

"_Sherlock?"_ rung a voice from the laptop.

_Everyone_ froze.

With panicked eyes, Sherlock's gaze found the laptop, where from his position the pale, pain-filled face of his brother came into view. Both of them were struck with the enormity of what Mycroft had just done.

"You… know this man?" Mad Dog's pitch rose, his voice a hysterical cackle. "You _know_ him? Oh this is too good. Bring him forward!"

One man remained by John, who wheezed pitifully in pain, and the other two men hauled Sherlock forward. Unlike John, he refrained from struggling; determined to keep his pride. He too was shoved down onto his knees; John was lifted onto his. He tilted precariously, pain racking his skull and stomach. Sensing his unease, Sherlock edged to his right, until John's side ran along his, and John was able to use him to find purchase and hold himself upright. Sherlock's own arms were secured behind him, just as John's were. And yet through it all, Sherlock's eyes never left John's crumpled face. The blood that ran from his mouth dripped deftly across his shirt, and his once kind eyes were swollen and stinging with tears. Bruises the colour of wild flowers were blooming across his cheeks. Catching Sherlock's eye, the strangest thing happened. He smiled.

"Couldn't… bare to be away from me, could you?" John's irises glittered from underneath his drooped eyelids.

Just as a hint of a smile played across his face, a sudden jerk ran through John's frame, as his muscles strained to keep himself upright. Sherlock felt the pressure as his friend sagged closer, and nudged him until he knelt straight. Anger flared and spread like a bush fire across his mind; the state of John dredging up unwanted feelings of, _I want to wrap my arms around you and keep you safe._

As the reply started to form on his lips, he was interrupted by the sudden recede of Mad Dog's laughter. Which was probably for the best, as he had absolutely _no idea_ what he would have said.

"I see your Sherlock, and raise you one Wilf Hudson…" Hesitation, as Mad Dog sought his group's approval. They were all nodding furiously.

"OK. Let me put this to you simply. You _will_ free Moriarty." Mad Dog commanded, his hand finding rest once again in John's hair. "Or your Sherlock will die, along with the others. You have twenty minutes to free him and not a second longer. If our demands are met, Sherlock here will be let go. After that, you will have an hour to free Wilf Hudson from imprisonment, and once we are assured of his safety, the beloved little war hero will be set free, along with the others. Understood?"

"… _It is understood."_

"Then ciao for now!"

Ignoring Mycroft's protests, the laptop was slammed shut, and the video camera paused for the meanwhile.

By now, a congregation of bystanders had surrounded the bank, their wide eyes bobbing and ducking; quiet clamour like the pattering of rain. The earlier gunshots had drawn the attention of the police, whom had worked fast to keep pedestrians from nearing the scene. With only one officer on duty, this had been a step above impossible. But now, as the news began to spread, and reinforcements were called; there began the long stakeout outside the bank – keeping those who watched at a safe distance, and receiving orders from people so much higher than them, there were rumours the Queen herself was hosting the bank hold up.

"We've got twenty minutes to _kill_..." Mad Dog's voice rose lyrically, and he combed his fingers through John's hair, almost thoughtfully. Sherlock was two seconds away from sinking his teeth into that hand and ripping out a chuck of flesh. It would be worth it to see the look of surprise on that beast's face. "You two-" With a nod of his head, Mad Dog indicated two of the balaclava-ed men who stood vigil to his right, "Go up on the roof; give those bystanders something to look at. We want as much controversy as possible, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." Was the joint reply. In sync, they turned; machine guns in hand and took the stairs that lined the wall, up to where they would wreak destruction on the unsuspecting crowds.

Mad Dog gave a final completive tug on John's hair before stalking forward to have a hushed conversation with his remaining henchman, both of them shooting the huddled hostages looks that could spear through concrete.

"So…" It was John speaking. "You got a girlfriend?"

Sherlock stiffened and inched his head to glare at the shorter man. They were on their knees, bloody and beaten, in the middle of a hostage situation; and this man wanted to discuss _relationships?_

"Just thought I'd lighten the mood."

"You're absurd." Sherlock breathed.

John ignored this. "So… you don't have a girlfriend then?"

"Girlfriend… No, not really my area." _Humour him,_ his inner monologue drawled sardonically.

"Oh. _Oh." _John's breathing visible quickened, and he blinked rapidly, as if this would draw him confidence. "OK. Do you have a… boyfriend? Which is completely alright by the way."

"I know it's alright."

"So you've got a boyfriend?"

_Does this man ever give up? _Sherlock steeled himself. _No, of course not; he's a soldier. _"No."

"OK, cool. You're unattached. Oh, like me! Fine. Good. Whatever."

For a few seconds, nothing was said. And then Sherlock's brain whirled and the cogs began to turn, the jigsaw piecing sliding into place.

"John, erm," He began, tongue darting out to moisten his lips. "I think you should know that I consider myself married to my studies, and whilst I am truly flattered by your interest, we _are_ currently being held captive by masked gunmen-"

"No- no!"John interjected, giggling despite himself. "I'm not asking- no. I'm just trying to make conversation, that's all."

"…I see."

"And besides," The blond man continued, apparently not discouraged, "I don't usually go for tall lanky gits."

"Mm, that's a shame; I've always gone for ridiculously small men with oversized feet."

What started out as a smirk between them suddenly ricocheted into full blown lip-biting laughter. It was ludicrous for two men, to be under a life threatening situation and yet still find time to giggle like schoolgirls, but it seemed they brought it out of each other.

"We can't giggle, it's this is the scene of a crime, stop it." John finally hissed, although his shoulders shook with barely concealed mirth.

"Oh, dull." Sherlock gasped out, his teeth biting ferociously into his full bottom lip. "You're the one who began this preposterous exchange."

"Yeah well…" John shuddered out a breath. "_Better dull then dead_."


	4. Chapter 4

It was the heavy finality of the gunshots that rung from above them that caused a silence thicker than poison to seep into the bank room.

And it was the little message alert that broke it into a thousand pieces.

Mad Dog; bored, and with the intent of embarrassing the perpetrator, reached into the plastic bag that contained the mass of phones and pagers; pulling from it a slim iPhone. He unlocked it smoothly and his eyes skimmed over the text.

Then his eyes sought Sherlock.

"You've got a text." His voice was hushed, but had the same force as if it was screamed. Mad Dog stepped forward, hand outstretched, and held the phone inches from Sherlock's face; it's incandescent light highlighting the smooth panes of his face.

"Read it. Out loud."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, then lowered them; heart strumming almost painfully in his chest. It was his reply from Lestrade.

"'We've got… police… surrounding the perimeter, and… a helicopter over head. Just… keep… your trap shut… alright? We'll have you… out of there… in no time. L.' "

With careful movements, Mad Dog sank onto his haunches, until his face was level with Sherlock's; eyes burning within his skull.

"Who's 'L', hm?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard." Sherlock sighed. _Scotland Yard's Finest, my arse. Well done Lestrade, you've probably gone and gotten me killed._

"And you thought it would be clever to text him, did you?"

"I do believe the fault came from him in texting back…"

Mad Dog pursed his lips, rose back up to his formidable full height, and tugged down his red balaclava. His face was revealed, and he let a leering smile cross his face, which twisted the long, wiry scars that marred it.

"I like you, kid, you've got balls." With a rough hand he mussed Sherlock's hair into further chaos. A completive look crossed that once handsome face, "Y'know… it's almost a shame you might die in-" A flick of his wrist. "-Seven minutes."

"A tragedy."

Smirking, Mad Dog turned, and began to reset the video camera, deft fingers drifting along the console with quick precision.

"Yeah, _I'm _the absurd one." John scoffed, once Mad Dog was out of earshot. "I'm not the one who talks back to a bloke who just killed a man in front of us."

"His type; they respect those who stand up for themselves."

"His _type_?"

"Yes…" If Sherlock had had free use of his hands, they would now be steeped in front of him, fingertips touching in thought. "That man there is Sebastian Moran."

John nodded slowly, confused, then shook it furiously; "No, that's not ringing any bells. Who's Sebastian Moran?"

With a sly smile, Sherlock tilted his head in Moran's direction. "Look at him, really _look. _The scars on his hands and face – battle wounds. You must have seen similar marks, what with you being stationed in Afghanistan-"

"Yes, how _did_ you know about that?"

Sherlock whipped his head from side to side, "We're not talking about you, we're talking about Moran here. Look at how he holds himself; it says military training – the way his hand instinctively curls as if to fit the butt of a gun, the proud straight of his back-"

"He certainly acts like one of my old military sergeants." John smirked jovially under his breath, "Oh dear God, what if he was one of my old military sergeants?"

Sherlock chuckled gently. "I doubt that immensely unless you had special training with snipers and espionage techniques to infiltrate highly sensitive Governmental documents."

"You know what? I can't say that I have."

"Thought not."

Sherlock ducked his head to indicate John's attention back to Moran. "I've had a while to analyse the wrinkles around his eyes; yours, from squinting against the sun, are situated in the outsides of your eyes, but you have accompanying lines around your mouth from where it raised as you squinted." Sherlock's eyes roamed John's face as he spoke. "Where as if you look at Moran, the deepest mark is that between his eyes. Instead of squinting, he was concentrating on something far away for a long period of time. Put that together with his obvious traits as a soldier and what do you get?"

"A sniper." John blew out a gust of breath. His eyes found Sherlock's. "Brilliant!"

"Brilliant…? John, you can hardly say a sniper of all things is-"

"No, no- what you just did then, how you knew he was a sniper; that was brilliant!"

The earnest look of surprise on Sherlock's face was heartbreaking. "_Really_?"

"Yes!" Shuffling on his knees, the blooded face of John shifted to face his friend. "Bloody amazing!"

"Oh." The smallest of smiles graced Sherlock's face. "That's… that's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Fuck o-"

Both of them looked up simultaneously at the laptop being powered into life once more. Sherlock cleared his throat, determined to finish his deduction.

"…He's after Jim Moriarty; you heard what Myc- the Governmental Official said – that man is the most dangerous criminal in Europe, and Wilf Hudson – America's most infamous serial killer of our time. I think it's safe to say his intents aren't exactly for the greater good. Two years back, there was a huge scandal over in India. A rogue member of Her Majesty's army was using the threat of torturing children to draw information out from an Indian syndicate. He'd tie the children to trees and sit atop a tree with a camera. Their screams would attract animals; if it wasn't the hunger or the tigers that got them – his sniper certainly would. That man's name was Sebastian Moran."

John's face was slack in shock and horror. "Holy shit."

"It worked though. He succeeded in bringing almost forty million pounds of sensitive documents back to the organisation he was working for."

"So… we're being held hostage by a man who has murdered children?"

"It would seem so."

They fell into uneasy silence; John's ragged breathing caressing the side of Sherlock's face.

It was dark outside; the disjointed silhouette of the city black against the deep purple sky. The two of Moran's henchmen returned down the stairs from their blood soiree, jostling each other and murmuring under their balaclavas.

"Hit anyone interesting?" Moran asked as they neared.

"Oh no, we had much more fun with the helicopter." The one with the blue balaclava guffawed loudly. "You should've seen it spiralling out of control – I couldn't _breathe_ it was so funny."

"Right. Good. Now get back in position, their twenty minutes is up."

The three henchmen took up their positions; two of them sandwiching the group of hostages, machine guns clenched threateningly in front of them; whilst the remaining man stood to John's right.

Stillness ran through the group as the video camera was switched back on.

Moran was the first to speak: "Has it been done? Is Moriarty free?"

"_He's free." _Mycroft's tense dulcet tones sounded from the laptop. _"Mr. Moriarty is currently on a private jet travelling from the isolation unit Scotland. You have to understand that twenty minutes is not enough time for a plane to get him to your chosen destination, but his release forms have all be signed. He's a free man."_

"And you'll have him dropped off to the coordinates we sent you?"

"_Within the hour."_

"Your cooperation is most enjoyable." Moran's gaze drifted to Sherlock's knelt form. "You must really mean something to this guy, eh, kid?"

John felt Sherlock stiffen, and nudged him gently, in a pathetic attempt at comfort. It was welcome all the same.

"_We have upheld our side of the deal," _Only Sherlock, who knew his brother better than he knew himself, could identify the waver in his voice. "_Are you upholding yours? The original deal was that Sherlock would be freed with Moriarty."_

A reluctant pause. "Of course, straight away. But first, how are the plans to free Wilf Hudson coming along? I'm guessing the American's weren't too pleased."

"_That's one way of putting it." _

"But he will be freed?"

"_By the end of the hour."_

"Excellent."

Moran took a step forward to end the video call, but Mycroft was insistent.

"_There will be police officers outside ready to receive Sherlock into their care. They have orders not to approach the door, or engage in any contact with you. It will be up to Sherlock to walk out of the bank where he will be transported to safety."_

"Yes, yes-" Moran waved a hand, as if this was all trivial. "Bye!"

The laptop was pulled to a close.

Spinning on his heels, Moran spat out orders for the two henchmen to return to their station on the roof, ready to pick off any police officers that even thought of advancing. Moran gripped Sherlock's bonds and heaved him to his feet. John, still slightly disorientated, swayed violently at the loss of something to lean against and almost tumbled to the floor. He stared in anguish at Sherlock's retreating figure as he was led towards the door, and swallowed back his fear.

Suddenly, he felt very alone.

Sherlock was pushed forward roughly, hands still secured by the zip tie. Moran fumbled in his pocket for the key to the padlock, and effortlessly slid it in. On a final thought, he turned to his remaining henchman.

"Point your gun at the hostages. If any of them make a move towards the door, shoot to kill."

This was met with a nod.

A clunk as the key was turned, and the chains unravelled. Moran slipped to one side, his body hidden and guarded by the door, and pulled it open, shoving Sherlock through then slamming it shut, all in the space of a second.

The last thing Sherlock had seen was John's ardent face, covered in blood and bruises, watch him leave.

He was met with the sight of a semi-circle of police cars, their headlights half blinding him. The dark of the bank was such a contrast, it left his brain swirling dangerously. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, stumbled, but caught himself, and then another. Slowly progressing, he finally reached the line of cars, and was instantly met with the loud roar of voices, orders, the buzz of movement and shouts, a shock blanket was gathered over his back, and he felt cold metal slide over his hands as they were cut free. On instinct he rubbed them, feeling the groove where the plastic had sat, and rolled his shoulders, feeling the burn of having them strained back for so long.

With weak legs he was guided forward, into the back of a black Ford Transit van. There, opposite, sat his brother with a solemn, hollow expression, but nonetheless a sight for sore eyes.

"Sherlock, are you alright? Did they do an-"

"Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me." Sherlock flailed weakly and knocked it off, but a kind set of hands replaced them.

"It's for shock." His brother explained, in the tone of a long suffering wife.

"I'm not in shock!"

A sigh. "Is the wound to your face the only-"

"Why is everyone moving away?" Sherlock inquired, catching the smallest glimpse of the police returning to their vehicles before the doors to the van were slammed shut.

"Because of the bomb." His brother replied patiently, checking his Rolex from beneath his sleeve. "We've had everyone in the area evacuated."

"But why? Moran would never set it off until he and the others were clear. Really Mycroft, you shoul-"

"Because of _our_ bomb, Sherlock."

Once again, the cogs in Sherlock's brain shifted into position. He opened his mouth to question, but Mycroft had already opened his.

"Our only objective was to get you out of there. As you are now free from danger, we can do what we were going to do originally and simply bomb the bank. We can't risk freeing Wilf Hudson as well as Moriarty. We just _can't_. There are too many double agents in the business to have not let Moriarty go; and so he will be freed as planned, unfortunately."

This took a few minutes to sink in; the words, "bomb the bank" spinning sickly inside Sherlock's skull.

"You can't do that!" Sherlock exploded suddenly, flying from his seat in the van until he could almost feel Mycroft's nose against his own. "The hostages in there will die as well as Moran; are you seriously suggesting you are about to kill them all?"

"Sit down, Sherlock." There was that long-suffering tone again. "You can't save everyone all the time."

"No, _no!" _Sherlock threw himself at the door of the Transit, but it was locked tight. He growled in frustration and tried again, ramming it repeatedly with his shoulder, blind in anger.

"Sherlock, it is a necessary sacrifice. Moran will perish, and Wilf Hudson will not have to be freed, the economy would suffer greatly with them and Moriarty all free to wreak havoc amongst society-"

"Screw society!" Sherlock spat, now attempting to unjam the door using only his hands. "_John_ is still in there, we can't just leave him!"

"And he will receive a hero's funeral, I assure you."

The punch Mycroft to the face received was well deserved. Running his hand along his now throbbing knuckles he took a step back and lifted a leg to kick at the door, just as the van rumbled into life and he was knocked off balance. The engine revved, and the Transit began to move away.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screeched, pounding at the door with his fists. "_JOHN_!"

And then the van swerved around the corner, and the street was left deserted.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Wow you guys! Thank you so much for your support; you're all fantastic! I'm so thrilled you're enjoyed it, and I hope you will continue to do so. Reviews are always welcome, as are small prompts. I'll try and update ASAP, but it may slow during weekdays what with school and all. I love you all. And now; ONWARRDS. **

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John's thighs burned stiffly from remaining knelt for so long. Checking over both his shoulders, he flumped backwards onto his backside and stretched his legs out in front of him, gasping at the change of position, and the tingle of blood returning to his calves.

Once seated, a single thought struck him that caused him to groan out loud in apparent pain.

_I didn't ask for Sherlock's mobile number._

Sighing in anguish he settled back to take the pressure of his tender stomach, feeling his heart hammer rhythmically inside his chest as he planned it out inside his head. Sherlock would be in the custody of the police right now, surely? And as soon as he was freed, once Wilf Hudson had been released from prison, he would be taken to the same place as Sherlock, right?

_Then_ he could ask him for his number. Excellent.

Grinning, he imagined Sherlock's face as he suavely propositioned him into going on a date. He could take him to the cinema; or maybe that Chinese circus that was in town? That would certainly be a night to remember.

Half stuck in fantasies and remembered touches, he glanced around. Only forty five minutes to pass, and this abominable nightmare would be ending, he'd be asking a gorgeous guy out on a date, and, if he was lucky, the gorgeous guy in question actually saying 'yes'.

With that the only apprehension in his swelling heart, he waited.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Sir? Please uncurl your hands."

It was that blasted paramedic again. Sherlock shot her with the look that would slay many a Detective Inspector into submission, but acquiesced; loosing the fists his hands had unknowingly coiled into.

The paramedic continued tending to his swollen knuckles. They twitched impatiently as she handled them; rolls of gauze slotting between the dark haired man's long fingers with timid meticulousness. All the while, Sherlock had returned his accusing gaze to his brother; whom was having his nose tapped up by the paramedic's partner.

"You know it's funny," Sherlock spat, resisting the urge to smile maliciously as his brother winced in pain. "I've somehow preformed the impossible and made your nose look even worse than usual."

"Insults will get you nowhere, Sherlock." His brother seethed, not amused. "This van isn't turning around, and no amount of sulking will change its course."

"Oh, _really_?"

"Oh for God's sake; that wasn't a challenge, and you know it."

"I beg to differ."

"_Look._" By this rate, Mycroft's only tone of voice would be 'conceding brother', "If it makes you happy; I can let you talk to this John fellow one last time before I give the order for the bomb to be detonated. How does that sound?"

If there was a scale of anger; Sherlock would have just smashed it into oblivion.

"AND SAY WHAT?" Ripping his hands away from the withering paramedic he thrust a finger into Mycroft's face, his bandaged fist visibly vibrating with fury. "What would I say to him! 'Oh hello John! Lovely to see you again, my brother is just about to _have you killed_, hope you don't mind!' "

"Now you're just being childish." Mycroft bit. "You have ten minutes to decide whether or not you want to speak to him, and then the bomb will go off. Until then, please refrain from loosing your temper any more or I will have you restrained, and don't you think that I won't."

There had to be a way around this, there just had to. There was no way Sherlock was going to let a man like John die without a second thought. He deserved more than that.

"He saved my life, you know." Sherlock returned to his seat in the back of the van, his voice eerily hushed, and his head hanging low. "I'd be dead if not for him. Can't you see, Mycroft," His head rose, trying one last time to break through his brother's hardened exterior. "I _can't_ let him die, not after what he did. _Please."_

Mycroft's blue eyes widened, not just in shock, but because of the shooting pain straight to his heart.

_Please._

That one, pitiful, unpretentious word that had been uttered so little, Mycroft could count the times he had heard it fall from his brother's lips on one hand.

It was 'please' that had Mycroft stay the night on the private ward Sherlock was in after his drug relapse, holding his hand, telling him it would be alright.

It was 'please' that made Mycroft accompany Sherlock to school when he was being teased by his classmates, who'd kicked him to the ground the previous day.

It was 'please' that persuaded Mycroft into letting Sherlock sleep on his couch after their grandfather's funeral; a man who'd inspired Sherlock from his first memory.

_Please. He'd said please._

Before he could speak, the breath was pushed from his body. On the laptop beside his brother, something had gone wrong. It seemed Moran had accidentally pressed something, and there was a one way stream to their laptop; Sherlock and Mycroft could see them, but Moran was unaware.

On the screen, Moran was standing, relaxed, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, nonchalantly attempting a conversation with the small, handsome blond man, who had been forced back onto his knees, and looked as if he had seen better days.

But it wasn't that that made Mycroft's chest tighten to an almost cruel extent.

It was the look on his younger brother's face.

Sherlock looked, quite frankly, as if someone had ripped out his heart. His eyebrows were pulled together over his grey eyes, which were wide in pain, and the corners of his mouth were tilted down; his bottom lip protruding. He looked truely heartbroken.

"_You don't seem very afraid…_" Moran stated, nudging John absentmindedly with his foot.

"_You don't seem very frightening." _John replied, and Sherlock chuckled despite himself. John was so obtusely stubborn.

"_Ah, the bravery of a soldier." _Moran sneered. "_Bravery is by far the nicest word for stupidity, don't you think?" _

John visibly bristled. "_If willingly sacrificing your life for the sake of others is stupid well then sir, I'm stupid, and I will continue to be stupid for as long as I live."_

Mycroft sat back astonishment. Maybe he'd underestimated this man…

Sensing his brother's averseness, Sherlock bolted upright and pivoted, Adam's apple bobbing as he once again suppressed his emotions.

"Mycroft-"

"He seems to have a strange effect on you, this John fellow."

Sherlock paused, uneasy. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you've only known him for a matter of hours and already you're pleading with me to have his life saved. If he lives, should I expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Don't-"

"I'm being serious." Mycroft's face was a blank, unreadable mask. "You broke my nose in an attempt to uphold his man's honour; what makes him so special? Give me one good reason, brother dear, and I will put the order to withhold the detonation."

The sound of hitched breathing was all that echoed against the walls of the van.

"One reason?"

"Just one."

Sherlock's hands resumed their position, fingertips together, and rubbed his full lips against them in calculated thought. _One reason to save a man's life. _

"You have two minutes left, Sherlock. If you have a reason, speak it now."

_How can you put the value of a man's life into something as menial as a reason?_

Raising himself upwards, he leant forward until his lips were but centimetres from the curve of his brother's ear. Then speaking with a hushed, revered tone, the reason sounded.

Hovering with his back bent; Sherlock awaited his brother's reply.


	6. Chapter 6

The suffocating black sack over John's head distorted his view of the bank; his breath causing it to concave into his mouth as he inhaled, heavy and deep. There was no way of construing time, but by his guess it was at least ten minutes since he had been left, still bound, by Moran and the others, after confirmation of Wilf Hudson's release had filtered through the web-cam in murmured tones.

To his right, a feminine whimper. The remaining group of hostages had been lined, facing the wall, hands behind their heads in submission to their captors. John had been the first to receive the black sack treatment, and so he was unsure as to whether they also were unable to see; or as to the current position of Moran and his cronies.

A bang; the sound of a minor explosion deflecting against the hollow walls, the suddenness of it sending a violent judder through John's frame. Fear rose in his chest.

Then, there came shouting, almost unintelligible, but their tone hinted at commands – orders. From sound alone it seemed men in heavy boots were surging forward in a stampede of testosterone, their direction of intent – the hostages.

Was Moran back? Had he, for an unknown reason, changed his mind, and returned to wreak additional pain? John's mind writhed in panic.

Perhaps the most agitating of it all; there then came the feeling of warm, gentle hands cupping John's cheeks.

He jolted at the unforeseen touch, jerking himself backwards; his heart rate spiking at the fear of further abuse from the fists of Moran.

"Hey, hey; it's OK, John, it's alright. It's _me_."

The sack was ripped from his head, and bright light assaulted his eyes. For a few moments, blindness overtook him, and he simply blinked furiously, willing the black spots away from his vision. And then everything became clear, as if someone was altering the focus on the lens of a camera.

Sherlock, with the smuggest grin you've ever seen, was kneeling in front of him; eyes bright and wide, inches from his own. Over his back hung a crisp orange blanket; the cut on his face was obscured by large plaster. He raised his hands once more to rest gently against John's face, tilting it from side to side to peruse the array of bruises and cuts that had built up there, assessing the damage with a soft expression.

John smirked, feeling the brush of fabric as police officer passed him to cut through the zip tie. He felt his face heat up under Sherlock's slim fingers, and the progressively smug look on Sherlock's face confirmed he felt it too. They didn't speak, but on a whim, John lent forward to let his lips brush against Sherlock's, making his intent all too clear. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and then he returned the touch, until they kissed gently. It was quick, but heartfelt. John felt his heart swell four sizes.

"Damn, I thought I'd gotten rid of you." John chuckled dryly, his mouth caressing Sherlock's as he did so.

"You'll have to try harder than that; it would seem my brother has grown quite attached to you."

It was Mycroft, who sauntered forward. In John's kneeled position, Mycroft was nothing short of a giant; six foot one inch of tailored suit and stiff upper lip, brandishing his trademark umbrella like a weapon. Sherlock's hands slid and found rest on John's broad shoulders.

"You're the bloke from the web cam, aren't you?" John asked in sudden recognition, reluctantly pulling back from Sherlock's warm mouth.

"Mycroft Holmes," Came the condescending reply that set all of John's nerves on end. "Sherlock's brother. And you must be John Watson…Don't take this personally, but I'd imagined you taller."

Sherlock stiffened, shooting his brother a hard glare; years of familiarisation in his brother's habits had him well tuned to his quirks. Mycroft was challenging John, goading him almost. But John was more than equipped at dealing with those who thought themselves better than him.

He did, after all, have an elder sister.

"Yeah well, the best things come in small packages." A gasp, as his wrists were finally freed behind him. The police officer stood and left. "Which I _think _is a line I used in bed once."

Sherlock snorted once before composing himself, letting his hands drop for John to adjust his arms, both of which were stiff and protesting furiously.

"Lovely." Mycroft sniffed, lips pursed. "I'll see you get the medical attention you need. Good day." Turning on his heals, and practically radiating arrogance, he exited the building.

"I hope you don't mind me saying, but your brother is a _right _git."

Catching John's eye, Sherlock mirrored his smirk. "You've required some of your own skills of observation, I see."

"I learnt from the best."

For a moment, they remained unmoving, both of them lost in the moment. A paramedic slowly approached; even she was aware the two men were obviously lost in each other's arms; but she had a job to do, and her patient's care came first.

"Sir? Are you able to walk? Would you like to accompany me to the back of the ambulance please?"

John was the first to break eye contact, peering up at the lady. It was then he realised he was still on his knees, with someone whom he had only known for half a day stroking his shoulders. Using Sherlock for purchase, he rose; then cried out in a bolt of pain.

With a groan of annoyance and realisation, he flexed his tender right arm, then lifted it in an attempt to pop his left shoulder back into position. He must've dislocated it when he was first hit to the ground. Sherlock caught his hands.

"You should probably leave that to a medical professional, John." He murmured as he rose; tucking his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans to keep them under control. He was so close to running his palms all along John's toned chest.

"I _am_ a medical professional," John raised an eyebrow, and gripped his shoulder again, hissing as it throbbed angrily.

Sherlock blinked once, then narrowed his eyes. "Army Doctor?"

"That's the one."

"_Army Doctor_." He nickered, grinding his teeth together. "There is always something."

John laughed good naturedly, and they both fell in step together. On a whim, Sherlock unravelled his shock blanket and draped it over both their shoulders, pressing another kiss below John's ear, who hummed appreciatively.

From the side of the building, there came a rattle, then a shuddering groan. The high pitched, bleep of an electronic device echoed delicately around the room.

Had… anyone actually deactivated Moran's bomb?

Oh _God._

"EVERYBODY OUT!" Sherlock howled, his quick mind suddenly alert to the threat; the fastening beeps filling his ears. The crowd looked towards him for direction; not understanding his horror.

"The _BOMB_! The bomb is about to go off; can't you hea-?"

But it was too late.

The sound like a crescendo of rock fall was broken by white noise as Sherlock was flung backwards by an unimaginable force, head connecting with the hard surface of the floor beneath him. Hot flames like waves blew outwards, shrapnel like bullets in the air. Everything slowed. The wall the bomb had been attached to bucked and crumbled; levels of offices careening to the left and downwards, tumbling in a roar of screeching metal and grating brick. Smoke like thick fog spread, smothering the ground in its dusty embrace, choking any who drew breath.

Any who were lucky to be still drawing breath.

The entire building teetered and fell to the side, a toppling inferno to all who looked at it.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

**A/N: This chapter summary – Sherlock and John love each other, and I **_**cannot **_**resist cliff hangers. I'm not even sorry. If everything turns out alright, I'm thinking of writing that date scene… oh decisions, decisions…**


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock and John were put on separate wards.

This was, of course, an outrage.

Sherlock was the first to awaken; concussion and a smoke riddled throat the optimum of his injuries. Bruises ran along his stomach and arms in a purple scatter pattern; two of his ribs taped tight with rough bandage. The bridge of his nose was cracked, the plaster securing it dirty against the pale expanse of his skin.

The dishevelled, off-white walls themselves were enough induce nightmares of unparalleled boredom. The sheets of his bed were clean and well pressed, slightly crumpled where his long legs had been duly spasmodic during the night. A single card stood, like a testimony of loneliness, on his bedside.

The nurses worked quickly; he was repositioned until his back was raised, and the room was at a more appealing prospective; food was prepared and his IV was removed. It was inevitable, but as soon as Sherlock's deprived mind began to demist, and a fold in the skirt of the Head Nurse hinted at a one night stand with the new surgeon on the Burns Ward – the room cleared, and once again, Sherlock lay alone.

It is always unfortunate to be able to recognise a hospital room, but Sherlock's memory was as clear as fresh water, and the circumstances of his last visit were, at best, memorable.

Sherlock's pale, unfastidious eyes roamed the room. A chair, plastic and generic, was positioned to the left of his bed.

_Tilted towards me, someone who favours their right hand… that eliminates John. Scuff marks on the floor from where the chair was dragged. Their stride indicates someone with size 9 shoe; the marks on the bedside cabinet left by the placement of a phone._

Mycroft. Of course.

Sherlock rose deftly and leaned upwards, keening at the pain sparking across his ribs like a raging fire. With swift hands, he snatched the card and the iPhone that lay corresponding to it.

_Try not to have this one burnt up in an exploding building. Even I have my limits. _

_-M_

The phone was an almost exact replica of his old one, to his relief. The black case enclosing it was thick black leather – almost identical to the skin of his riding crop. He ran his thumb over the material thoughtfully, settling back against the thick, uneven pillows, before opening his phone with well practiced movements and in a blur of thumbs sent a text to his brother. The reply came quickly enough; his brother was obviously not caught up in a food related incident.

_[Mr Watson is three doors down from you to your right. He is stable, and I've been informed he is recovering well. A piece of shrapnel abraded his leg, but the wound is not deep, nor infected. He is also suffering from small areas of second degree burns across the aforementioned leg as well as smoke poisoning. It would seem that as you called the crowd to attention, Mr Watson had you positioned so as you were protected by a partitioning wall; therefore most of the damage was absorbed by him. Is that enough detail for you? M.]_

Sherlock tapped a finger to his mouth in thought, ingesting this information, and stoically ignoring the flaring pain across his heart at every mention of John's suffering. Mycroft, in the giving of John's position, had obviously premeditated Sherlock's motives.

John was so continuously surprising; it was beyond intriguing. It made a frisson of anticipation run down his spine as he anticipated their next meeting. John was so very ordinary; and yet he was so extraordinary in Sherlock's eyes. He found he continuously wanted to know more about this funny, becoming man. Not just about his behaviour; but his looks. Sherlock wanted to peal away his layers one by one and relish each new area of exposed, tanned flesh- and now he was getting flustered…

And of course it was not enough detail; Sherlock preferred visual facts over the literary kind. The statement of a crying woman mourning the death of her husband (whom she may have brutally murdered), over a written statement, if you will.

There was only one thing for it; his rebellious mind concluded. To visit John.

Forgoing the button for assistance, he threw the haggard blankets from his legs and swung them over the side of his bed, hissing as the icy floor made contact with the soles of his feet. Without his previous attachment to the IV, he was more or less free to move; slowly – lest the revealing hospital gown he wore flashed more than he was willing to show. Sneakily, he pulled the door open, and entered the corridor; his ribs protesting furiously.

The corridor was empty; those on the night shift busied away in private wards, or conversing quietly over steaming cups of watery coffee. Sherlock turned to his right, and much to his delight – there stood the door to John's room. Taking a deep breath for courage, he slid inside.

John sat upright in bed, one leg bent at the knee – a large book propped up against it. His face, cheeks flushed red from first degree burns, was puckered slightly as his concentration in the book was all absorbing. Sherlock followed the strong length of his arms, down to the raised area of his leg under the blanket; which he was sure to be smothered in cling-film and bandages. The side of his face was highlighted by the soft yellow light of the lamp on the bedside table; the rest of the room was in a blanket of smooth darkness.

At the sound of the door shutting, John's eyes flickered upwards in surprise, then widened in shock. The side of his face rose in an endearing half-smile.

"I suppose it's a bit of a stretch to ask if you bought me coffee?"

Sherlock unconsciously mirrored the half-smile, and took a step into the light, his voice equally rough from disuse and smoke inhalation. "Coffee? At three a.m.? Really, John, do try and be sensible."

Chuckling, John shut his book and leant tentatively to rest it on the cabinet. Sherlock's eyes skimmed the cover; George Orwell's _1984. _Hm.

"You look well." John stated, his medical eye taking in Sherlock's reddened face and nose.

"You don't." Sherlock replied, taking seat next to John on the hard plastic of the hospital chair.

John struggled to suppress the grin threatening to break out across his face. "And here I was thinking I looked like Brad Pitt; thanks for pointing that out."

"Yes, well; we can't expect you to have stayed completely sane, now can we?" Sherlock deadpanned, the corner of his mouths twitching. "_Brad Pitt_? Honestly?"

"Hey, I'll have you know I've had plenty of people tell me-"

"No, no-" Sherlock waved a hand out in front of him, effectively shushing John. "I meant to say how you look nothing like him, because you look _better_ than him. I had no intent of insulting you."

The two of them sat in silence for a second; John's heart beating furiously in his chest.

"Even with the burns?" He murmured, wanting to return to the previous light heartedness of their conversation. The room seemed to have shrunk slightly.

"_Especially_ with the burns." Sherlock breathed.

His hand, distractedly, found the edge of John's blanket to tug it between his fingers, giving his eyes something to look at other than the piercing blue of John's. His hand was caught by John's smaller one, and their fingers twined together effortlessly. Both pairs of eyes were on their interlaced fingers; hearts firmly in their throats. John's tawny, slightly freckled digits were a shocking contrast to the ivory of Sherlock's; but they fit. Their hands sat comfortably together against the bed as if they were made for each other.

"Mycroft said you positioned me so I was protected," Sherlock spoke under his breath, suddenly unwilling to break the comfortable quietness they had fallen into. "Why did you do that?"

It was true that Sherlock had already deduced John's answer, but he wanted to hear John say it – wanted to watch those thin pink lips form the words.

"I- I suppose it was just instinct." John had adopted Sherlock's hushed tone. "I knew I had to protect you; that's all that was running through my mind from the moment you starting shouting about that damned bomb. I knew from military training if I could get you behind a large plane of material, that would absorb most of the blast and-"

"-and yet you did nothing to protect yourself…" Sherlock finished, suddenly perplexed. The answer he had been expecting was nowhere near this complex, and now his mind was reeling. John had surprised him again.

Suddenly, John laughed. Hoarsely and rough, but he laughed. "Sherlock, I'm a doctor and a soldier; do you really expect me to be thinking about myself in a life threatening situation?"

Sherlock pulled at his lip with his upper teeth, worrying it gently. John's laughter faded, catching the solemn look on Sherlock's face, and gave a squeeze of his hand.

"Hey, what's up?"

"I…" Sherlock blew out a breath. "I don't quite know. I feel happy and sad and elated all at the same time, but it's not logical. Part of me wants to feel bad for how I was put before your own safety, but another part of me… It's… _ugh_!"

He threw his hand – the one John wasn't clutching - in the air angrily; not used to being unable to form the correct words.

"No, go on-" John persisted, his thumb rubbing soothing circles across Sherlock's metacarpals. "Another part of you…?"

"Another part of me is _content_ with the fact you willingly-" He sucked in air sharply, and his full lips pursed outwards, brain assessing with wrapt attention these thoughts and feeling and coming up negative. "You know what I mean. I can't- I can't process this all, it's too much."

John's tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he nodded, just slightly. Although he had no clue what it was that was particularly worrying about what Sherlock had told him – he understood him to be a very detached man, and was half sure that Sherlock was simply overwhelmed with feelings he had simply suppressed for a very long time.

After a moments thought; he shuffled stiffly along the bed, inching himself away from Sherlock until a sliver of bed appeared. Sherlock, sensing abandonment, looked up earnestly and was met with John's kind gaze. He looked down at the space next to him suggestively.

"Your brother… he's pretty important isn't he?"

Sherlock scoffed. "He'll happily inform you he occupies a minor position in the British Government, which is completely idiotic seeming as he practically runs its entirety."

A nod. "So…" John wet his lips again. "He'll probably be able to stop our nurses getting angry if you stay the night, right?"

Sherlock's smile returned to his face, much to John's glee. Sherlock looked so lovely when he smiled; John made a small note to make him do as such as often as possible.

Hauling himself up from the uncomfortable plastic, he sat, cautiously on the edge of the bed. It dipped under his weight. Turning, and lifting his legs so they aligned with John's, he shifted closer, his cold exposed skin twitching as it came into contact with the smooth warmness of John's. John lifted his arm and pulled Sherlock closer, until the taller man lay with his head tucked under John's chin, an arm draped across his chest. They both shifted, trying to find positions that left them in as little pain as possible, then John tugged the cover over them both, and they fell still.

For a moment, they stayed like that – Sherlock experiencing the strong, safe sensation of being in another man's arms for the first time; John nuzzling softly into the mass of black curls that tickled his nose.

"John…" Came a hesitant voice, "I suppose I should thank you for saving my life. Again. I must confess I'm quite glad you did so."

Sherlock was jostled as John shook with silent laughter.

"Oh God. You're not planning on keeping me around as some sort of body guard are you?"

"Mm, depends on how much you charge."

"Ooh, now let me see." Sherlock felt the change in John's heart beat. "How does a kiss sound?"

Slinking his neck upwards, Sherlock kissed John lightly on the lips. He hovered there for a second, before dropping back down; the protesting of his ribs too much for him, but the warm sensation of John's lips never left him.

"I may need-" John's reply was broken by a loud yawn. "-daily instalments. Of kisses, that is."

Sherlock settled against John's pleasant frame, glowing with happiness.

"If you insist." A pause. "Good night, John."

Another yawn. "'Night, Sherlock."

The two of them curled around each other until as much skin as possible was touching. John continued to press small, lazy kisses into Sherlock's curls until they both drifted off; content in each other's arms.

**A/N: Does this make up for the cliff hanger? Or do you want date scene smut as well? Review, prompt, give me cookies, whatever. I love you all. **

**A/N #2: It's currently really late – so please excuse any grammar/ spelling/ dialogue mistakes. I'll probably read this in the morning extremely red faced. Oh well. Hope you enjoy it anyway, aha. **


	8. Chapter 8

Two weeks later, and John was free to leave the hospital; limping despondently with the help of the generic metal cane he had been provided with. Sherlock frequently had to busy his hands, or his anger would spiral out of control and he'd be snapping that blasted cane in two. It was a constant reminder of how John had saved him; and how he had done nothing in return.

Until tonight, of course. The night of their first official date.

Sherlock had been discharged three days after the explosion; worse for wear only in looks. Although his ribs frequently complained against his actions, the bandages soon came off and he was free to once again throw himself about with unparalleled vigour. He had visited John as frequently as he could in between his endless flat search. He was yet to ask John if he would flat share with him; half unnerved by the prospect of a 'no'.

7 o'clock, on the streets of London. Sherlock tightened his arms, and guided his boyfriend across the road; their position awkward; but relishing the feel of John's body against his own. John walked affront, whilst Sherlock directly behind, had his spindly arms encircling John's waist, hunched so as to place his head on John's shoulder. Both of them were smiling like idiots.

"I can't believe you're taking me out on a _date."_ John huffed; only having had half an hour to come to terms with this event before he was forcefully dragged from his home. "I'm still wearing a bloody cardigan."

"I happen to like your cardigan." Sherlock mumbled, his petulant bottom lip thrusting outwards. John couldn't resist such a blatant offer and twisted to kiss the taller man, sucking his lip into his mouth and running his tongue along the inside of it. Sherlock shuddered and returned the kiss, opening his mouth so he in turn could explore John's warm, needy mouth with his tongue, licking at the backs of his teeth.

"John I-" Sherlock strugged to talk around John's lips and pulled back gently, his breath swirling in front of him. "John, we have time to do this in Angelo's," The protruding lip returned. "It's _cold."_

"Fine, _fine_." With a roll of his eyes at the infantile tone, John felt Sherlock's hand find rest on his hip, and they strolled forward, Angelo's only a corner away.

They were greeted by perhaps the most enthusiastic Italian man John had ever encountered. He flew forward the moment they set foot through the door; a whirlwind of animated chatter and dishevelled beard dandruff.

"Sheeerrrloooooock!" Crooned the man, leading the pair forward and seating them in the restaurant's premier seats by the window. Lanterns like glowflies hung above them, bathing them in a gentle orange glow. Remembering his manners, John stepped forward to pull back Sherlock's chair for him, an embarrassed smile careening his face. Blinking with surprise, Sherlock took his seat; watching with soft eyes as his boyfriend took up the chair next to him, cane placed to one side.

A menu in both hands, the Italian man advanced, his grin revealing a set of neat teeth.

"Anything on the menu; anything you want-" He was addressing Sherlock, smoothing back a withering head of hair with his hand. "-On the house for you and your friend."

"Do you want a starter?" Sherlock directed the question at John; more interested in the way John's eyes gleamed under the lanterns than the buzzing Italian.

"I'm his _date_." John corrected, looking between the two men, then down at the menu.

The Italian launched forward to grip Sherlock by the shoulders, who grimaced half-heartedly. "This man got me off a murder charge."

"This is Angelo," Sherlock explained, "A few months back Angelo was convicted during a particularly nasty triple murder. I managed to prove he was in a completely different part of town. Car-jacking."

John's mouth fell open into a perfect pink O.

"He cleared my name!" Angelo beamed.

"I cleared it a _bit_."

Undeterred, Angelo spoke onwards. "If it wasn't for this man I'd have gone to prison!"

Sherlock's embarrassed frown deepened, and he tilted his head to catch Angelo's eye. "You _did_ go to prison…"

An awkward silence formed.

"I'll bring you a candle," Angelo finally dropped Sherlock from his grip. "Make it nicer for you and your friend."

"I'm his _date_!" John corrected, giving an exasperated drop of his shoulders; several scattered restaurant patrons turned to shoot him looks of varying disconcern. Sherlock caught the look and smirked under his breath; obviously amused by John's forwardness. The two of them fell quiet for a moment; surveying the menu. It was all exquisite, and John suddenly had a thought come over him whereas to how he was going to pay for all this.

"I will break both your hands if you so much as reach for your wallet," Sherlock uttered under his breath, barely above a whisper; his storm grey eyes never leaving the page of the menu. John, understandably, gawped.

"Sorry, how did you-?"

"I saw your eyes widen as you perused the menu, then drop slightly as you viewed the prices; your hand subconsciously went to your pocket where you keep your wallet – it hardly a challenge to guess your train of thought." Closing the menu, Sherlock smiled, tight-lipped, and set it down.

"Right… Right OK." John exhaled, and let the menu drop from his hands, eyebrows drawn in confusion. "What do you do, exactly? As a job? I've never asked."

"What do you think?"

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?" Sherlock's elbows came to rest on the table, his fingers clasped together.

"But… Lestrade – that Detective Inspector texts you. The police don't consult private detectives."

Sherlock grinned; ever so slightly impressed. "I'm a consulting detective." Then; a lot prouder: "The only one in the world – I invented the job."

With an honestly interested expression, John leaned forward, rapt. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Sherlock happily explained, eagerly lapping up the attention John was giving him. "When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"_Brilliant._ So, you what; go look at crime scenes and help out?"

"Lestrade caught me hovering around a crime scene two summers back; a prostitute had been repeatedly stabbed in an alley in Whitechapel, some sort of homage to Jack the Ripper. I put forward my hypothesis, and when it turned out to be correct, Lestrade took my number. Now he texts me whenever he needs assistance."

"Wow." John was on fire with his compliments tonight. "That's fantastic."

"Mm, thank you." Sherlock settled back, "I'd ask you your job but I fear I may already know it."

"Yes," John chuckled, "I think I gave that away a couple of times." He went to gaze back at the menu; but the fervent glint in Sherlock's eye was asking for elaboration. "Yeah, well, nothing interesting happening there; I joined the army when I was eighteen, got positioned in Camp Bastion with my dad, and quickly realised I looked _really_ fit in the uniform."

Sherlock choked back a violent laugh, whilst John dissolved into helpless giggles.

When Angelo returned, face permanently branded with his trademark leer, candle in tow, orders were given in quick succession. A bottle of red wine found its way onto the pair's table, "_My treat,"_ Sherlock had claimed, a wry smile worked across his mouth. Their hands soon found each other under the table, slim fingers grasping tentatively around stronger ones. Before long John's restraint broke, and he began to caress Sherlock's leg under the table with his own; managing to retain a look of complete nonchalance. Sherlock, in contrast, rose into a blush that coloured his pale cheeks, and downed a glass of wine in its entirety.

Meals were eaten; John maintaining that Sherlock was too skinny for his own good and feeding the taller man food from his plate, kissing the crumbs that tumbled over his boyfriend's lips. Laughing softly in the dim light of the restaurant they conversed quietly, swapping food and stolen kisses like schoolboys.

All too soon; the shutting of blinds indicated that the restaurant was closing – other patrons long gone, and that they too, soon, would have to leave. They had been lost in their own little world for so long, to come back to reality left them slightly disorientated; suddenly craving that intimacy again.

The two of them fell, tipsy, into step beside each other, leaving Angelo's with heavy hearts. Piling into a taxi – their laughs become more sanguine by the minute – they returned to John's flat.

Fumbling fingers opened the door and they stumbled inside, giggling and shushing each other playfully. The light was flicked on, and the room was revealed. It was simple; understated. A single beige couch facing a large television, a coffee table sandwiched between the two. A kitchen ran off to the left, where also lay the kitchen through the next door, and to the right two doors, leading to two bedrooms. Mismatched photo frames lay around; family and friends with wide smiles in long forgotten memories. Sherlock stepped up to one, and lifted it to view it better.

It was John in Camp Bastion in Afghanistan; young faced and freckled across his cheeks, wearing his beige-brown camouflage with regimental pride. He looked as if he was only eighteen or nineteen – white teeth shining in contrast with his tanning skin. Two men stood either side of him, sandwiching him with their height. The first was John's age; pale, with a strong jaw. His brown hair half hidden under a loosely placed helmet; its straps attacking the man's cheeks. The second man was older; perhaps late forties or early fifties. His face was proud, with a gentle almost familiar smile. He too, like John, was tanned; and through his bluster Sherlock noted their identically coloured eyes, both squinting as their cheeks bunched in a smile, both _happy._

"My dad." John muttered humbly; suddenly appearing behind Sherlock's figure to nod at the older man he stood so proudly next to in the photo. "He died two years after that was taken. And that's Bill-" He indicated the paler man, "My flatmate."

Sherlock's throat constricted; unknowing of the protocol. "Your father looks like you," He settled with.

"Yeah, he does." John chuckled, sad blue eyes fondly falling upon the photo with half hidden hurt. "Ugly bugger."

"John, " Sherlock wound an arm around John's jean-clad waist, hand gripping the blond man's hip; who leaned into Sherlock's warmth, finding comfort in the touch. "You do realise I now can't deny the allegation you are ugly without it sounding as if I find your father attractive…"

John snorted loudly, shaking his head. He pried the frame from Sherlock's hand and set it down fondly. "You idiot… as if anyone would call me ugly."

A laugh burst from Sherlock's mouth, and they found their way on to the couch. They squirmed, attempting to find a comfortable position, until John took control and Sherlock found himself sprawled across his back along the sofa; John hovering over him, his kind eyes blown wide.

Slowly, when he couldn't resist any longer, John bent at the elbows to bring his lips to Sherlock's and they kissed languidly, lips sliding over lips almost lazily. Sherlock tilted his head and slowly opening his mouth, tugging at John's top lip as he did so, to ask for access. John complied and his mouth opened, allowing Sherlock to push his tongue inside.

Leaning onto his right forearm, John lifted his hand to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, fingers lingering on his smooth skin. He felt more than heard Sherlock's breath catch in his throat, and kissed down the taller man's jaw, hungrily now, and sucked along his neck, raising red, almost possessive marks along the expanse of his pale skin. In his mind, he knew where he wanted to take this; he just hoped Sherlock's mind was in the same place. Sherlock's mouth fell open in a groan, and he pushed at John's cardigan, throwing it onto the floor and ripping at the t-shirt underneath, managing to get his hands under and dragging John closer to him, craving closeness. Meanwhile, John nuzzled into Sherlock's neck and pulled the sides of Sherlock's shirt apart, revealing the pale, smooth muscular area of Sherlock's chest.

With his tongue, he moved back and traced wetly along Sherlock's raised abs and bit at them playfully, drawing small, breathy moans from the man beneath him. He grinned, and leaned to suck one of Sherlock's dark nipples, swirling his tongue over the tip, then pinched the other into hardness. Sherlock was so very responsive, and with every movement John could feel is growing arousal pressing firmly into his stomach through the man's dark trousers.

Sherlock squirmed in pleasure and pulled the hem of John's t-shirt up and over his head, finally revealing John's lean, toned chest, and felt his mouth water at the sight of it. Going up onto his elbows he rolled them and they twisted until Sherlock was on top, who immediately set about mapping John's chest with his mouth, his lips caressing every ridge and scar along John's flushed skin. This was unexplored territory for him, and he was intent on making the most of it. John tasted good, unrecognisable – like something musky, heady. Sherlock catalogued every scent and texture, bringing his hands up to bracket John's writhing hips and all but attacking the delicious circles of John's nipples, tasting them.

As soon as Sherlock's teeth grazed the waistband of his jeans, John's brain went offline. He wriggled up to lean onto his elbows, breathing out of control, hair mussed and sticking up in all directions. Sherlock's long fingers flicked open the button and ripped the zip down, then he caught John's eye and slid his fingers into John's boxers and around his ridiculously hard, leaking erection. He wrapped his fingers around it and stroked it from root to tip inquisitively.

At first he stroked him gently, getting used to the feel of John hot and thick in his hand then lowered his head to lap tentatively at tip of John's cock, hearing John whimper and buck his hips, trying to get Sherlock to take more of him in his mouth. Sherlock obliged, and veered downwards, slicking John's cock into his wet mouth and firmly sucking on it, bobbing his head up and down, lips running along John's shaft.

John wove a hand into Sherlock's mess of curls, not forcing him or guiding him, just because he needed something to hold onto or he would loose his mind or go blind with pleasure. He curled his other hand into a fist and bit down on it, shaking his head gently. This was so, so ridiculous.

With increased suction, Sherlock bobbed his head faster, a hand going down to tug at one of John's balls which were drawn tight to his body. Sticky precome was leaking steady down his throat, which he swallowed hungrily, and worked to take John deeper in his mouth.

John knew he was close to coming, and finally lost control he thrust more actively into Sherlock's slick mouth, feeling the hot coil of arousal in his gut sink lower.

"Sh-_Sh-erlock_-" He stuttered, feeling his body begin to seize violently and his thrusts become frenzied. "I'm going t- going to-_nngghh_-"

Keening a loud, animalistic cry he came, white light bursting behind his eyes. Long streams of come spilt over Sherlock's lips and trickled down his chin, whilst he swallowed all he could, milking John until he slumped against the rough material of the couch, thoroughly spent. Sherlock ran his tongue over his lips, making sure John was watching him through half-lidded eyes, and crawled up the older man's body to kiss him gently. John moaned softly, he could taste himself in Sherlock, and worked to catch his breath. Slowly, he trailed a hand down to cup Sherlock's still throbbing groin through his trousers.

"Your turn, I think…" He breathed, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

Half an hour later, they lay entwined on the sofa, both forgoing clothes and dignity and lying naked along its length; facing each other, placing kisses on exposed skin with wry smiles. A thick, red blanket obscured their more delicate parts.

"I wanted to ask you…" Sherlock began, looking up through his eyelashes, "I've… got my eye on a place on Baker Street, together we _should_ be able to afford it – the landlady is Wilf Hudson's ex-wife and she needs protection; she's more than willing to give us a lower price-"

"Are you asking-?" John's bright eyes shined from beneath his lids. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably under John's piercing gaze, "You're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor…"

"Yes…?"

"Any good?"

"Very good." John, as usual, eschewed modesty.

"Seen a lot of injuries then?" Came the murmured question. "Violent deaths."

John paused; uneasy as to where Sherlock was taking this conversation. "Yes."

"But of trouble too, I bet." And there was that playful smile, working its way onto Sherlock's face; sending John into reeling confusion.

"Of course; yes. Enough for a life time… far, far too much."

A calculated pause.

"Want to see some more?"

John stilled, Sherlock's intent eyes watching him fiercely. They had been through so much together; faced death and found the beginnings of love in each other's arms. So many things could go wrong; spiral them into an unearthly oblivion to which there would be no return. But John would risk anything for Sherlock; because, he told himself – they were meant to be together, and was there a more beautiful power than that?

"Oh_, God_ yes."

On the surface of the kitchen table, a vibration broke through, echoing abysmally off Sherlock's phone, a text finding its place in his inbox.

[Moran said he had fun playing with you and your little pet and

now I can't wait to have my way with you.

See you around, _my dear_. –JM]

The screen faded to black, the text waiting to be discovered. It was to be the beginning of everything. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson; together, solving crimes… and falling in love.

-end-

**A/N: This can be read on its on, or with the following chapters. Roll on part 2! **


	9. Part 2

**A/N: Because I couldn't leave this story alone…**

**Hostage: Part Two**

"John, I don't want you to leave."

For the forty-seventh time that evening, John blew a breath from his lips and furrowed his eyebrows. Sherlock was using his wounded voice and it speared his heart every time.

"I have to, love. You know that."

From his position in the armchair, Sherlock shot up, intent only on wrapping his arms around John's slim waist and never letting him go. John turned away from his suitcase as his boyfriend approached and they tangled into each other's arms. Sherlock buried his head into John's shoulder, breathing in the scent of John's freshly laundered uniform.

"You don't _have _to, I can have Mycroft pull some documents-"

The sound of John's repressed sigh vibrated against Sherlock's chest. "I don't mean like that." Pulling back gently, he twisted to press gentle kisses along the taller man's exposed cheekbone. "I've got friends back in A; Bill, Fuller - they'll be expecting me."

Sherlock's arms tightened unconsciously, and a choked sensation worked its way into his throat. "But you'll be leaving _me_ here."

Those words knocked the air out of John's lungs with more force than a physical blow. He had to remain strong, or he'd end up taking Sherlock's ludicrous offer to stay.

"I know, and I'm sorry. But, I'll only be for a few months, and then I'll have finished my tour of duty and I can come home. Permanently. You knew I was only back on leave."

"Of course I knew." Sherlock huffed, now running the bridge of his nose along John's smooth neck. "What I didn't predict was your aggravating stubbornness."

"Ah, yes. The stubbornness of the Watson is a thing to fear," John chuckled, shoulders jostling minutely.

The two men stood in silence for a moment, both afraid almost to draw away and loose the contact of each others skin. It had only been two months since Moran had engineered the hostage situation, freeing the elusive Moriarty from imprisonment. Having done so, John had slipped as perfectly as a jigsaw piece onto Sherlock's life; the missing link of sorts, finally coming to rest amongst the disarray.

They had moved into 221b with the intent of providing temporary protection to their amiable landlady; Wilf Hudson's ex-wife, but had soon settled into her life, just as they had settled amongst each others. John's leg soon healed, and the walking stick he had so hatefully been provided with was subjected to Sherlock's impromptu acid bath. They were happy.

Until John's physiotherapist had confirmed John was well enough to return to Afghanistan, and Sherlock's world fell apart piece by piece.

"I'll miss you," Sherlock murmured smoothly, his lips finding the space below John's ear and kissing it.

John shifted, breathing catching in his throat. He dipped his head to run his teeth along the pale expanse of Sherlock's neck, catching the man's prominent jugular. "I'll miss you too, you big dope. Are you going to be this soppy all the way to the hangar? I think I like it."

The condescending tone of Sherlock's voice was ruined by his rapid breathing. "Airport, John, not hangar. You're not in Afghanistan just yet, in case that escaped your notice."

"Shut up." John smirked, then leaned back to capture Sherlock's lips with his own tenderly. "Try not to annoy anyone too much while I'm gone, will you?"

Sherlock scoffed; "If the general populous isn't too dull, I will try my best to refrain a few sarcastic comments."

Knowing that was as good as he was going to get, John shrugged a, "Good enough." before breaking away to search for his dog tags. He'd only put them down a second ago…

"Looking for these?"

Sherlock lifted his arms to pull a thin metal ball-chain from under his shirt. There was the clink of metal on metal as he took the dog tags from around his neck and brandished them in front of him, a guilty look plastered across his face.

"What, exactly, were you doing with my dog tags?" John crossed his arms and slumped onto one leg; the very personification of refrained annoyance.

Instead of replying, Sherlock approached John and hung the metal plates around his neck. With solemn adoration in his eyes, he held up a dog tag for John to see.

It read:

A POSITIVE

362 4497

WATSON

J. H.

NO RELIGIOUS PREF

FORTH NORTHUMBERLAND FUSILIERS

Then, on the other side, in tiny letters:

THE SOLE OWNER AND PROTECTOR OF SHERLOCK'S HEART.

John felt a sharp pain fill his chest and tears blur his vision. As he enveloped Sherlock into his arms, John had never felt so complete.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"It's so _quiet_." Bill complained, just loud enough to be heard over rattle of gears; at first referring to the stillness of the night instead of the animalistic pounding of metal on metal.

"It's a desert." John explained wryly with a smirk. "It's supposed to be quiet."

"No," Bill gestured a hand to the radio. "There's no radio chatter, no follow up Humvee. It's just us, on our own. Literally."

John shuddered gently at the morbid tone entering Bill's voice. "Yeah well, better quiet than the sound of enemy RPG. If anything goes wrong, we've got the Apache tailing us. It'll be fine. "

The Humvee trundled across the rough scattered roads; the roaring engine a siren call against the heavy silence of the Afghan night. Sand dunes like skyscrapers littered the way, lit only by the monumental headlights the RV was carrying, and the slight azure blue of the night sky and the impending morning.

John sat forward, fingers twitching, agitated with long frayed nerves, and the others soon followed suit until they mirrored him with their bewilderment. They had been travelling since sunset, and had been told to expect all manor of enemy fire.

None had come.

Documents bound thick in stamps and leather straps lay secure under Bill's chair. If you were paying attention; you would see how every body, save the driver, was tilted towards it unconsciously, their thoughts careening it with silent despair. None of them had volunteered for this; this was not their job – transporting documents under the illusion that they may not survive.

No one had directly said it, of course; but the code soon became clear. The repeated, "You'll be fine," in place of actual fact. More than a dozen men in combat uniform had seen them off, which was practically unheard of. And then there were the soldiers inside the Humvee.

Special operatives, long serving officers, not one but two of Camp Bastion's top medical surgeons. Half of them had never even laid eyes on their driver, but the man had arms as wide as John's chest and was missing at least three quarters of one ear.

Through the silence, they drove on.

"This is ridiculous." It was Richardson speaking. "How do they expect us to operate on fuck all intel? This could be some serious shit we've got ourselves into."

"Yeah, like invading Afghanistan doesn't count as 'serious shit'." Fuller snorted; flicking the toothpick he'd been chewing the entire journey onto the floor of the Humvee.

"Shut the fuck up, Fuller; we signed up for Afghan knowing what we were going into," Richardson said, "I just don't like being fucked around, that's all."

"None of us do," John murmured, always the martyr, sending a reassuring half smile Richardson's way. "Let's just get the job done."

"Yeah," Bill said, "We drop off the documents, nice n' easy, then we can fall back to base and find out who little Johnny here's letter was from."

A chorus of wolf whistles and rough banter are suddenly flung around the Humvee. John threw his head into his hands.

"Come on, mate," Fuller threw a good natured punch over the seat at John's shoulder, connecting just above John's Red Cross band. "You got a bird back home or what? She fit?"

"I'm not talking about this," John smirked, raising his head to point accusingly at the members of the Humvee, "to any of you! That letter was from my sister, you assholes."

"Sister, my arse," Fuller scoffed, "Old Jackson back at base said you went bright fucking red when you read it."

John clamped his mouth shut, wide jaw grinding, and was met with the friendly jeers of his comrades.

"I knew it! It wasn't from you sister was it?" Fuller said, settling back in his seat with a smug expression plastered across his handsome features. "Didn't know you had it in you, son!"

Bill, meanwhile, was pretending to tear up. "That's my boy, Watson! And there I was thinking you'd end up a forty year old virgin."

"Like you, you mean; you ugly tosser." John countered, and the Humvee was filled with hoots of laughter; their timid first moments long forgotten.

"Watson, sir?" Called a timid voice. It was Gardner; the youngest of the group. He sits knees together, with his beige helmet resting on them gingerly. The men still their inane chatter to hear his quiet tone. "I thought you were on night rounds for the rest of the week? Hemmingway said you'd been passed up for this."

The group shifted collectively. They all valued John as a friend as well as a comrade; he was a good, honest bloke, and Gardner was practically accusing him of not being good enough to sit amongst them.

"Litten dropped out," John explained humbly, "and I was first reserve. I only got told yesterday they'd listed me."

"Watson's good as anyone here," Fuller said through gritted teeth whilst shooting Gardner burning looks. "If he hadn't of been listed; I'd have been asking where the fuck he was."

"Same here," Bill continued; "He's the best surgeon on base. Steadiest hands I've ever known."

There is a sobering pause as everyone digests this.

"Yes, but sir," Gardner bit, not liking being outnumbered. "He isn't _supposed_ to be here. Litten wouldn't have dropped out if it wasn't for that sniper on the border of Khush-i-Nakhud."

"But he _is_ here;" Bill replied with equal venom, "So shut the fuck up before you get my fist to your face."

"Gentlemen." A deep, baritone growl rung from the formidable Jamaican driver. "No fighting. Or I'll get involved, and see how you like sixteen stone of pure muscle coming at you."

"Not the first time I'd have someone come at me," Fuller chuckled, and the rest of them groan disgustedly at the innuendo. "What?" Fuller asks, shoulders shaking with mirth. The heavy laugh of the Jamaican rolls languidly around the walls of the Humvee.

"You're full of shit, Fuller." Said Alcock, who'd been quietly absorbed reading the map for the sojourn; sitting with wise apprehensiveness up front with the Jamaican. His huge brown eyes peaked out behind the thick rims of his glasses, tracking their progress to the landing zone they were heading for.

"Oh hey, Alcock; I didn't see you there!" Fuller spat, a fake smile adorning his face. "Why don't you come back here and say that again, huh?"

"For the love of God," The last and oldest of the group; Spider, flicked his cap of his face from the back of the Humvee where he was sandwiched between Fuller and Gardner. "Does anyone in this vehicle ever shut their goddamn mouth?"

"Pack eight huge egos into a moving tin can…" Bill muttered, as if this was a well known saying.

"Watson, instil some manners in these pussies." Spider tittered, pulling the beige cap back down and over his face.

Richardson swooned dramatically, and held his helmet to his chest over his heart, "I think we should all just learn to get along," he crooned and it instantly smacked down with whatever the men had to hand; beanies, a rock, and the wrappers of chocolates all littered down on him. The rock hit Richardson square between the eyes. He picked it up and brandished it in front of him, then glared accusingly around the Humvee. "Who the _fuck_ carries a rock around with them?"

The collective bursted into riotous laughter; even Alcock shuddered silently and had to wipe the mirth collecting under his glasses. Bill turned to smother his braying laugh into John's shoulder, which was shaking violently as the short man giggles hopelessly. The Jamaican drawled his thick, baritone laugh, arms planted firmly on the steering wheel of the Humvee, but vibrating as he repressed the loud call of his amusement. The others, meanwhile, simply chuckled boyishly into their hands.

A crack, a whistle, the splintering of glass.

The Humvee swerved savagely, and the eight of them were thrown from their seats, yelling in surprise and pain. The Jamaican's arms had fallen from the wheel, and the Humvee tumbled out of control, off the road, and crashed down into a ditch. The jolt threw the group into further disarray; Bill's head made contact with the side window which cracked, blood spilt down his forehead in a crimson torrent. Alcock's skull was firmly indented in the dashboard, a mess of fractured bones and fragments of plastic.

They were under attack.


	10. Chapter 10

"Is everybody alright_?"_ John asked as the smoke cleared, his heart in his throat, a burning sensation coursing over his left shoulder.

Those in the back of the Humvee; Fuller, Spider and Gardner were uninjured, and their calls rung out from the heady smoke that was beginning to pump furiously into the broken body of the Humvee.

Richardson's groan was less convincing; his leg had become trapped under the Jamaican's seat, where it had broken and fractured, wedging itself at an impossible angle. He cries out hollowly, tears stinging his eyes.

On instinct, John turned to feel for Bill's pulse, but was halted by sudden blinding agony. Looking down with weary eyes, he caught sight of the damage. He had had the impression he had remained unscathed; the angle of the fall meaning Bill had cushioned most of his impact, but the sudden numbness in his left arm signalled otherwise. The bullet which had driven straight through their driver's neck had followed through and buried its self deep in John's shoulder.

There was no way Richardson or he were going to survive this without surgery… and they were in the middle of the desert.

"I want everybody out of the Humvee, _now!"_ Spider yells savagely, and practically pushed Fuller and Gardner out of the doors, tearing his gun from over his shoulder with wicked smoothness.

John, whom sat between Bill and Richardson, was trapped. He leaned to one side to check Bill's pulse with his good arm, practically whining with relief when a soft, repetitive thrum jolted his fingers.

The sound of a whistle, and then a solid, sickening _thud_ sounded from outside the Humvee.

"_Sniper!"_ Fuller screeched; "_Sniper at 11o'clock! Fall back!"_

John froze, hands lingering on Bill's neck, feeling the heavy burning of his shoulder slowly hint upon agony. His vision zoomed in on the tiny splintered hole in the windshield, and the blood coursing from the unnamed, and now deceased, Jamaican's neck. _Sniper._

_We're fucked._

"Archangel, this is Uniform-10," Spider hissed into his radio to the chopper that was supposed to have kept them safe; barely audible to John inside the Humvee. "We are under attack from an unknown assailant; I repeat: we are under attack. We have three men down and two causalities; request backup. We _need_ backup-" A whistle of air as a second bullet glanced the Humvee. "Is anyone there? _Hello_? Archangel, this is Uniform-10-"

John's steady hands ripped at his belt, unbuckling it and throwing it around Richardson's thigh. With it in place, he tightened it, creating a makeshift tourniquet. Richardson cried out in pain, breathing noisily through his gritted teeth. John made no obvious show of his own pain, simply biting into his lip, creating white, tortured indentations.

"Hold on, mate; we'll get you out of here." John panted, getting onto his knees to check how far Richardson's leg ran under the seat.

The door on Richardson's side is torn open to reveal Fuller, red faced, SA80 in hand. From the other side of the Humvee, there is the sound of bullets ripping through the air, each a painful thud to the heart. It was Spider providing cover, prone by the bonnet of the Humvee for protection.

"We've got to run," Fuller choked, bending to view Richardson's leg just as John was. "The chopper was compromised way back by RPG; it's heading for the secondary LZ two miles north. We've got enemy convoy on two sides and a sniper over our heads." He scoffed, shaking his head in despair, before pulling his startled emotions together and returning his attention to the mangled twist of Richardson's leg. "D'you think you can get him out?"

John shuddered a breath and ran a hand over his face, adrenaline like fire burning through his veins, hearing Richardson whine pitifully beside him. His wise eyes roamed the injury.

"It won't be easy," He settled with, then turned to Richardson; "It'll hurt like nothing you've ever experienced."

Richardson, who is already sweating and writhing in agony, twisted pathetically in the chairs grip. "Get Murray to safety first…I can always draw fire."

John and Fuller shared a look over Richardson's lap; hard, military eyes assessing the danger.

"Watson," Fuller ordered, "I'll cover you; take Murray over the ridge, then together we'll take Richardson here, got that?"

"But," John countered, his bullet wound protesting at the mere thought, "I'm a better shot than you; you should take-"

"You've got more medical knowledge, with Murray down you'll need to tend to him," Fuller explains; "I'll be no use to him when he wakes if you get shot down. You take priority. Now go!"

Whirling away from the door, Fuller set up position next to Spider, both of them sending round after round over the dune the sniper was supposedly laying. John had no choice but to take Bill. Somehow.

Reaching over Bill's lax body, he threw the door open and climbed out, head down, helmet firmly strapped on, and pulled Bill into his arms. The pain hit blinding point, and he hissed, a sob breaking from his lips. He could do this. He could do this. He heaved Bill's body over his good shoulder in a fireman's lift and almost blacked out in pain. God, Bill was heavy. Using all his strength he walked furiously around the Humvee, chest tightening at the sudden sight of Gardner's fallen body, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. That must've been the thud from before.

A silent prayer falling from his lips, John powered on, back burning, and body hot despite the cold of the night. Cold sweat ran in rivulets between his shoulder blades. The sand simply made matters worse, with their combined bodyweight; John sank and slid, teetering dangerously. In the light of the stars, he reached the ridge and laid Bill down, where the man stuttered into consciousness as he hit the hard, sandy ground. John sighed, practically sobbing in relief and sucked in a ragged breath.

"Hey, there." John murmured over Bill's groan. The injured man raised a hand to his head, and grimaced as he comes into contact with the wet slide of his own blood.

"Thh- _fuck_?" Bill coughed, hacking, and tried to sit up; only to be pushed back down by John's strong hands.

"Stay here." He commanded, "I'm going back for Richardson. Keep your head down, mate."

And with that, John turned and leaves, stumbling down the steep slant of the dune before Bill even had a chance to thank him.

Skidding violently as he reached the bottom of the bank, John threw himself forward to gain cover using the side and slid up to Fuller, back flat against the Humvee.

"He's safe." He breathed, drinking in a lungful of air through his teeth.

"Fucking fantastic." Fuller retorted under his breath, firing vehemently over the bonnet. Something catches his eye and his thick eyebrows draw together. "Bloody hell, Watson, you're hit."

John followed Fuller's line of sight, and tucked his chin in to see the stain of flowing blood over his left shoulder, easily visible against the tan-colour of his uniform.

"Yeah, I know." He said, "Murray's awake, he'll have visual from the ridge." John was intent on changing the conversation, but Fuller ripped at his pack to find a wad of material to press to John's shoulder, both of them distantly aware of Spider's repeated firing. "Carrying Richardson is beyond me," John continued, "I'll have to hang back and cover you and Spider."

Spider paused and dragged his SA80 down from the bonnet, hugging it to his chest. "What about his leg? We ripping it out or what?"

"Near enough." John admitted, "If we can manoeuvre the seat forward it might make it easier."

"I can hear you, you know!" Richardson called from inside, "Cut it off if you fucking have to, just leave me my balls."

"You heard the man," Spider said as another whistle of the sniper's bullets hisses above their heads, "Drag him out, then Watson can take position. Step to it, ladies."

With that he tugged a grenade from his belt and sent it hurling over the dune; an onslaught of ammunition forcing him back down below the bonnet.

Ripping the front door of the Humvee open, Fuller hauled the Jamaican driver from his seat, drawing him out and laying him on the sand. John, meanwhile, forced Richardson's door open and crawled over him, before getting a grip on the offending leg, bracing it still. With a grunt, Fuller pulled the bar under the front seat and slowly yanked it forward.

Richardson _shrieked _in pain.

Inch by inch the chair slid forward, Richardson's cries filling the air like a heavy soup as the metal of the seat scrapes morbidly along the already ragged flesh of Richardson's leg. There is a clunk as the seat is fully extended.

"It's alright, mate. That's the worst of it over." John reassured him, checking the tightness of the tourniquet quickly before Richardson joined them, standing outside the Humvee.

"Right," John said, taking control. He eyed Fuller, "Take hold of his arms and drag him out, I'll twist his leg."

Ignoring Richardson's look of sheer horror, Fuller acquiesced, folding his arms around Richardson's. "Ready?" He asks.

"Ready," John echoed, and watched as Fuller begins to pull. Hands shooting out he manoeuvres the twisted leg, wincing in sympathy as it caught fractionally before freeing itself. Blood smoothed the passage, slicking Richardson's leg free. As Fuller stepped back and Richardson was free of the Humvee, John held his leg high for Spider to take hold of. The manoeuvre successfully carried out, John launched forward, chest heaving, and fumbled his gun upwards.

"See you on the other side, Watson," Fuller called, arrogantly thrusting his chin up. John mimicked him in reply, and trained his attentions back on the direction of the enemy fire. Everything fell into place.

_Movement. _

As the harsh sounds of boots on sand faded into silence, there came the most almost unrecognisable flicker of movement below the cliff not far from where John crouched; black lines stark against the beige-brown of the Afghanistan ground.

_Noise._

Chatter, like dubious birds rises from behind a ridge in the distance, indeterminable word with an unrecognisable rhythm of speaking.

_Danger._

The sight of approaching soldiers.

John tilted his gun minutely to aim, eyes shooting from man to man. They both wore suits; black and white, clean – expressions blank and unreadable. They also carried no weapons, and had no armour to protect them. Against his own will, John lowered his SA80. There was no way he would fire at unarmed men. He just couldn't. Despite the danger, morals were ringing through distantly in his mind. What sort of a man would shoot down someone who couldn't even fight back?

"Stop where you are!" John bellowed, head down.

The two men stuttered to a stop. It was clearer now they were closer that one was taller than the other; the first a lithe, towering blonde – the second a shorter, smaller-built brunette.

"We just want to _taaalk_, Johnny boy!" A lyrical irish voice rose from the shorter man, "We don't bite. Well I know I do, if you're into that kind of thing."

John froze, eyes flying wide. _Oh no._

"- Can't say the same for my man here, but then again; when can you?" The Irishman shrugged, an eerily jovial smile gracing his face. "He's a darling really." A pause. "Is that a British Army L8A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Why are you here?" John barely had to raise his voice for the pair to hear him; their closeness raising every hair along his arms. "How do you know my name?

"_Oh_, I know a lot of things…" He huffed a giggle, brown eyes roaming the sky. "John Watson. I'd recognise your dumb little blonde face a mile off. It's so adorable. Really. But then, I always have had a thing for blonds."

"You didn't answer my first question." John seethed, heart in his throat. Suddenly, his trigger finger was aching to move. "Why are you here? What do you want?"

"Oh, Johnny, isn't it obvious?" The Irishman tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and looked up through his eyelashes, a dangerous smile flitting over his mouth. "I want _you."_

**A/N: Here's the drill. I have about 40 different endings for this; so what do **_**you **_**guys want? Angst? Romance? Happy ending? Sad ending? Moran spontaneously ripping off his top to reveal his several thousand abs? Review and send love, my beauts. **


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: You are all going to hate me. And don't worry if things don't fit; It'll all make sense soon.**

Sherlock quickly learnt how dependent he had become on John, and how his absence was well, unnerving, to say the least.

There was little he could do to make those lingering thoughts on his boyfriend dissipate. He found himself at crime scenes, hesitating just slightly, expecting to hear a bright voice and a see a wide smile as the word; "Fantastic" echoed the room.

There was many a time when he caught himself talking aloud, little deductions and things that caught his eye, only to remember that no one was listening, no one was there, no one was going to reply.

Mrs Hudson, despite her amiable attempts at inviting the persistently scowling youth down for tea, soon left him to his own devices – a little peeved at being on the receiving end of a particularly spiteful remark concerning Mr Chatterjee and his many wives.

As a week went past and Sherlock simply withdrew more, Mycroft intervened, perturbed at the thought of his brother falling into darker roots of distraction.

But, it seemed, Sherlock had found something different.

Mycroft arrived at 221b, heart in throat, expecting to see the sight of his youngest sibling with eyes like marbles, but instead found himself quirking a delicate – almost unperceivable – smile as he entered. Sherlock sat in the middle of the floor of his living room, dressing gown loose around his skinny frame, surrounded by photos.

Photos of John and himself.

Much to Mycroft's amusement, Sherlock looked disgustedly irritated in half of said photos, whilst John to his side was smiling like a child who'd found his favourite toy. They were photos from everywhere: restaurants, their living room, Hyde Park, _crime scenes._ Mycroft bent at the waist to pick up a considerably worrying photo of Sherlock facing the camera giving it two thumbs up with the sight of yellow police tape him behind him. John must've taken that one.

"Are you planning on standing there smiling like a schoolgirl all day, or have you come for a reason, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, sounding peeved, not looking up from where he was apparently picking a favourite between a picture of John and him wearing sunglasses and a photo John asleep on Sherlock's shoulder in the back of a taxi, drooling slightly.

"I came to inquire about your health, but it seems it is your mental sanity I should be more concerned about…" Mycroft sneered.

He stepped forward, mindful of the photos, to take a seat. Sherlock snarled as he approached John's armchair, so with a roll of his eyes he took up sitting in the black armchair opposite.

"Should I bother asking about the photo gallery you've prepared?"

Instead of replying, Sherlock raised a hand to wave it in the general direction of the fireplace. Mycroft turned and found on it a newly opened letter. From John.

But, of course. Who else could draw out such a violent state of calm from his brother?

[Dear Sherlock,] it read,

[Firstly, you are an utter twat. Seriously, I honestly can't believe you would do that to me. Bloody hellfire. I suppose I should thank you for the _seventeen page dissertation _you sent me in your last letter on the current state of my penis. Just so I know: how bored are you exactly? Please, if you expect me to come back with an iota of mental stability, don't ever include any part of my body in a medically accurate essay ever again. Please. Rant over.

On a lighter note, how are you, love? You mentioned something in your last letter about Lestrade consulting you over a triple murder? How's that going? I don't know why I'm bothering with asking as you've probably already solved it, but just in case; I'd love to hear about it. I miss being there with you on cases. Did you know your eyebrows pull together when you're thinking too hard? It's adorable. It makes me want to kiss you. I want to kiss you right now, actually. I'll have to make do with my hand, ha ha. Not long now 'til I get back anyway.]

Mycroft paused, eyes rising from the page. Sherlock seemed completely immersed whatever he was doing, paying no attention to his brother. The letter seemed awfully intimate; why was Sherlock asking him to read this? Despite his worries, he read on anyway.

[Now, I know you said that you were perfectly capable of providing yourself with something to do, but I'm not going to lie, I think that's bullshit. You always complain about being bored and since I'm not there to complain to – you'll start on Mrs Hudson. So because I'd quite like to still have a flat when I get back, I started planning something quite a while back.

In the cupboard under the sink (the one with all the cleaning stuff – not that you'd know that, you lazy sod) is a box of photos. I can practically hear you rolling your eyes; stop thinking about how boring this will be and listen. If you go through them, there are some of me, some of you, and some of us both. I got most of them from your iPhone I hope you don't mind. While we're on the subject; why were there some of me sleeping? Bit not good, dear. But anyway, go through them, and piece them together and you'll find a clue as to where I hid your chainsaw. I know you haven't found it because I haven't received news of someone finding your brother's bloody remains scattered around the Sussex Downs.]

There, Mycroft couldn't help but snort.

[How does that sound? I know, it's a bit naff, but we aren't all geniuses you know.

Have fun with that, and don't miss me too much!

Miss you,

John xxx

P.S. Books! ]

Placing the letter down tentatively Mycroft let the side of his face curl up onto a smile. He'd obviously misjudged this endearingly little man who had successfully captured Sherlock's attentions.

Not that he would ever say that out loud, of course.

"Solved it yet, brother?" Mycroft clasped his hands in front of him, elbows at his sides.

"Nearly," Sherlock growled, eyebrows pinching together.

"And how long have you been at the job, exactly?"

"Since four this morning."

Mycroft started. It was twelve o'clock now, meaning Sherlock had been trying to work out John's clue for eight hours. That didn't seem quite right.

"May I ask what's taking you so long?" The elder brother enquired.

With an aggravated sigh, Sherlock pulled himself to his feet with his usual ethereal grace. "I got… distracted."

"Distracted?"

"Yes."

There was a pause, a flicker of uncertainty. The moment Mycroft caught his brother's pale eyes, they dropped to the floor, singling out a photo that lay close to his feet. It was of his own, grinning face with John pressed up against him, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek, eyes crinkled shut.

Mycroft understood. It pained him, but he understood. Sherlock was missing John, and it hurt; the photos reminders of the times they had spent together. Mycroft knew more than anyone that these feelings were alien to his brother, and could practically feel the younger man's sorrow radiating from him in waves.

With a shake of his body, the emotions fell from Sherlock's face, and he once again became merely a thinking machine.

"All the photos have the time and the full date they were taken printed onto the back," He began, hands flying out to indicate his point. "All of them save four, where date and time have had some of their numbers scrawled out or written over, always leaving two sets of numbers. A cipher. John's Post Script of 'Books!'-"

"So it's a book code." Mycroft intervened, his lips pressing into an impressed line.

"To specific pages. And specific words on those pages."

"Indeed. So, what is the message?"

"Well, that would depend on the book; that's the _cunning_ of the book code."

"And have you deduced the book in question?"

Sherlock's turbulent eyes roamed the sea of photographs once more, before turning sharply and clamouring over to the bookshelf by the window. His fingers twitched restlessly, a murmured, "Come on, come on…" falling from his full lips.

"Aha!" He exclaimed, and reached up to pull a thick black cover from the disarrayed mass of books. Mycroft twisted to catch the title. _1894_ by George Orwell. Interesting choice.

"I saw John reading it at the hospital," Sherlock divulged, "Then again in several of our photos together."

He launched forward and flipped the first photo of John stuffing spaghetti into his mouth over. The numbers '23, 3' were printed bold across the back. Excitement rising in his chest in a thick heat, Sherlock thumbed the book open.

Page 23, third word across; "_put"._

"Put…" He echoed softly, then flicked the next photo (this one of himself surprising John in the shower) where the numbers '202, 40' had been written.

This time, it was the word "_your"._

The third set of numbers, '194, 23'; "_telescreen", _made Sherlock pause. Telesceen was most likely referring to the television.

And then, the fourth and final word: 299, 38 – "_on"._

Mycroft tapped his long fingers along the armrest. Personally, he had been expecting something much grander. _"_Put your telescreen on." He murmured, then raised an eyebrow, nodding his head towards the forsaken television. "Well, go on then."

Practically vibrating with excitement, Sherlock barraged forward, pressing the smooth round button that operated the telly.

Then waited.

For a moment of agonising silence, nothing happened. Then, with a whine of static, the television fluctuated into life.

There, on the screen from what appeared to be a CCTV in the top corner of the room, was an office. The walls, lined with mahogany panels, were bare and uninteresting; the floor was a stylish cream. To one side, a cluttered desk lay facing the room, and on the other a row of bookcases. All together not very interesting.

Where the interest lie, of course, was in the people situated inside the office.

John sat on a simple wooden chair facing the desk, the side of his face visible on the camera. He was dressed in loose grey clothing Sherlock knew instantly wasn't his, and held himself in a horrid rigid stillness that seemed to centre around his shoulder. His face was worn, battered, lines furrowing deep into his beautiful face. His hands were clasping and unclasping with frayed nerves on top of his lap, and his feet were bare.

Opposite him, behind the desk, was James Moriarty.

A few days after Sherlock had been discharged from hospital, Mycroft had visited Sherlock with file upon file of documents all consolidating around the illusive villain. Photos, childhood education, dubious links to numerous crimes across the decades. 'Europe's most dangerous man', the files had said.

And he was now sitting in the same room as his boyfriend.

_Shit._

"_Is he safe?" _John was asking, his voice sending frissons of fear down Sherlock's spine. He sounded terrified and tired. "_Is he alright?"_

"_Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head, he won't be hurt." _Moriarty giggled, "_Well, he won't be hurt _more."

"_I did as you asked," _John seethed, "_I carried out my end of the deal, and now - it's your turn."_

"_I will release your daddy when and where ever I want." _Moriarty's eyes flared dangerously, even from the gritty screen, those brown orbs flashed violently. "_I've had him for four years now, what makes you think I'll let him go so easily?"_

"_I have done everything you made me do." _John's hands contorted into fists. "_Everything."_

"_No… not e_verything_."_

"_I'm sorry? What- what do you mean?" _A tone of heart-breaking desperation entered John's voice.

"_Let me make this very clear to you. Your job, Johnny, was to make Holmes fall in love with you. Nothing else. And what did you do? You fell for him as well. How touchingly sweet. Oh no, no, no, no – your job… is far from finished, my dear."_

"_What else am I supposed to do?" _John exploded, rising from his chair to slam his palms against the desk with vehement force. Moriarty didn't even flinch.

"_Oh, not much." _Moriarty's leering smile spread like a rash over his pale cheeks. "_That camera over there is streaming this live to Holmes' television. So go on, smile for the camera!"_

John's worn face stretched as his mouth fell open in a look of heart-wrenching horror.

"_You… bastard." _John snarled, anger colouring his skin. "_You fucking bastard! You said you'd tell him I'd moved on, not tricked him!"_

"_Oh Johnny, after all we've been through, do you really think I was telling the truth? How utterly adorable! Really, you are the cutest." _The villain clapped his hands together in glee. "Oh, t_his is _too_ gooood!"_

John looked back at the camera, tears filling his blue eyes. There was the slightest movement, as John mouthed the words, "_I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."_ For a moment, Sherlock almost believed him.

"_Do you think we made him cry, Johnny?" _Moriarty sneered, _"We both know he loved you, let's be honest here. But how much do you reckon you meant to him?"_

_Everything,_ Sherlock whispered in his mind; _you meant _everything_ to me. _

"_How much do you think we made him _hurt_? You know, for a genius he really is stupid. Someone falling in love with Sherlock Holmes? Ha!"_ Jim giggled gently and checked his fingernails. "_Pathetic."_

The screen exploded in a rain of glass as Sherlock threw the nearest thing to hand at the screen; a mug. Fat tears rolled down his flushed cheeks in agony. The sharp ache of his chest was spreading, until he couldn't breathe; he couldn't think.

"Sherlock, _calm_ down-" Mycroft began, but was cut off by a mug aimed directly at his head.

"Get. Out. Of. My. Flat!" Sherlock bellowed, his hands flying up to rip at his hair.

"I don't think you should be on your own when-"

"I swear to God, Mycroft if you don't leave now I _will_ hurt you." His grey eyes, rimmed with red and filled with tears, blazed horribly, breath drawn from between his teeth.

"Fine." Mycroft got to his feet, mouth set sternly, "Just text me when you've calmed down."

He picked up his umbrella from the side and stormed out, coat trailing behind him, and closed the door in a matter of seconds.

As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock tore forward and threw his fist into the wood with all his force. The wood splintered around his split knuckles, and pain exploded along his hand. But it didn't help. Nothing would make the pain in his chest go away. It throbbed and burned worse than a physical wound.

John, his beautiful, trustworthy John, had betrayed him.

_Not yours,_ his mind whispered. _He's not yours anymore._

Tears poured in a torrent down his cheeks, and finally his legs gave out. He slumped, back against the door and slid to the floor and cried hollowly, his face crumpling. His chest burned; the pain was too deep, it hurt, it _hurt._

He raised his hand clumsily to wipe the tears away, feeling like a little child, but they were just replaced by more.

"_John,_" He whimpered, little breathy sobs spilling out.

In the van, he had told Mycroft he thought he'd felt love John.

But now, he couldn't feel a thing.


	12. Chapter 12

Mycroft caught the hard bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, channelling his anger caused by this whole ordeal away. He could hear clearly each of Sherlock's agonising sobs from inside 221b, ricocheting against the thin walls with horrid thuds, but couldn't bring himself to comfort him; to turn back on himself and pull his younger brother into his arms.

That just wasn't an option.

Sherlock was the type to follow up on his threats, but also a man who would seek comfort should he so need it. Mycroft could name but a few times when his brother came for him for comfort. There were those days in their younger years when Sherlock had taken up reading fiction and given himself horrible nightmares, courtesy of his momentous imagination. The elder Holmes would often wake up at night and find a tiny, wiry figure tucked up against his side with huge, round eyes staring imploringly at him in the dark.

"I had a nightmare." Sherlock would state simply, voice high and cracking, and Mycroft would pull the slight boy into his arms where they would sleep for the rest of the night. But that was years ago, and things had long changed between the brothers since then.

He is a grown man and a Holmes, Mycroft reassured himself, and he will deal with this as such.

Before Mycroft could step away from the door to the awaiting car outside, a petite, fresh faced older woman approached him, petering slowly up the stairs. She was dressed in an unflattering cerise button up dress, and heels that clacked ferociously against the wood of the flooring.

"Oo-oo." She called ahead, "Is everything alright, dear?"

"Of _course_, Mrs Hudson-" The sound of heavy furniture being flipped violently filled the air; a contrast to the smooth reassuring tone of Mycroft's condescension. "-Everything is _just_ fine."

"Ooh, what's that sound?" Mrs Hudson tittered, cocking her head to one side and placing her hands upon her brittle hips. "That had better not be Sherlock and that ruddy gun again."

"Mrs Hudson…" Mycroft adopted a lower tone, one usually reserved for private political chats and underhand conversations. "My brother has just… requited his relationship with his boyfriend. I do hope you understand that-"

"What? John?" Mrs Hudson's mouth fell open and tears brimmed her eyes. "But, why ever would they break up, they were so lovely together!"

Mycroft gave a tight lipped frown, "Conflict of interests," He settled with using his usual tact.

"Oh that's such a shame." Mrs Hudson huffed gently, shaking her head. "Young people these days, always moving from one person to the next."

"Indeed." Mycroft made a show of checking his silver pocket watch, quirking an eyebrow. "Well, I'm afraid I must dash…"

"Yes, yes, of course." Mrs Hudson patted his arm with motherly tenderness and turned to descend the stairs. "If you've ever got any free time, Mr Holmes, you can always come to mine for a cup of tea; it would be lovely to have you."

"Why thank you, Mrs Hudson, I'll keep that in mind," Mycroft halted his reply to view his mobile, which buzzed irately. His eyes widened minutely as the text was opened.

[Want to make our darling Johnny writhe in pain?

He does look so pretty when he does so. –JM x]

Mycroft paused, running his thumb along the length of his screen. It was no surprise to him that Moriarty had somehow discovered his mobile number, simply a minor annoyance. He would have to have Anthea change it; too many texts from the deceitful Irishman would grate upon his nerves.

But, _John_. Then there was the matter with John. The man who misled his brother, dredging up unwanted feelings of love and adoration from him only to tear up his heart.

The grip Mycroft had on his phone tightened dangerously, anger tainting his neck a flushed red.

No one would hurt his brother and get away easily. That much he would work to make clear.

[Happily. What do you require? –MH] He replied.

An uneasy smirk worked its way across his face. Finally, he was doing right by his brother.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

That night at 9pm, Sherlock sat alone in the flat, thinking.

He lay lengthways along the sofa, a lone tear escaping as his thoughts twisted and danced silently though his mind. His fists flexed and uncurled sporadically.

Moriarty had enlisted John to break his heart. Now there was a sobering thought.

As he dissected the situation in his mind; it all made sense – John's inexplicable attraction right from the beginning, his almost unnerving bravery when the first met; his control over the situation. He _knew_ what was going to happen. It was all planned. He was simply a cog in a vast machine to bring Sherlock down, and put him in his place.

To show him who was in charge.

_Moriarty._

There was that name again. That repetitive little name that was always there… hiding in the background behind a layer of lies and illusions. Sherlock brought his hands together, tucking them gently under his chin, a thousand strands of thoughts like a web entwining across the branches of his mind.

John had obviously been a ploy to get Sherlock's attention; a show of his power. And although Sherlock hated to admit it; it was terribly clever. Neat, almost. He'd struck before Sherlock had time to react. It was a plan within a plan. Moriarty could have broken out of that isolation unit with minimal fuss – oh no, the entire hostage situation was a massive ruse to wrap Sherlock up in the beginnings of a game. And what a great game it would be.

Hostage. Hostage situation. The spin of Sherlock's mind began piecing together idol pieces of thought. John's father was being kept hostage by Moriarty, using him as a chess piece to exploit John.

Sherlock shifted restlessly on the sofa. His heart ached furiously whenever his mind strayed upon John's name.

Heartache. How quaint.

Lost in his own private world, Sherlock failed to notice the figure that had been lounging in John's armchair for the past half an hour at least.

The figure cleared his throat pointedly, rolling his eyes with patient aggravation.

"Moran." Sherlock sighed theatrically, his eyes unopened. "Come to haul me in to your _master_?"

Moran snorted and settled back, crossing his skin-tight black jean clad legs at the ankle. "Hardly. It's way past his bedtime."

Sherlock gave a small sneer and peered at the blonde through a cracked eyelid. He was different from before; not just in his attire but his demeanour. His dirty blonde hair was shorn short, and his slitted green eyes observed the room from between his pale eyelids. They had a certain dead quality to them; no light shining behind them, none of the innocence that John's often held. (Damn, there was that name again).

It was apparently now that Moran's face wasn't the only area of his skin scattered with white-thin scars, but his hands and neck too. _Claw marks. Scratches by human fingernails, from his thumb downwards – they scratched to pull his hand from their mouths. Interesting._

"You aren't here for me… you've brought no weapons, so you aren't expecting a fight…"

"I wouldn't need weapons to take you down, skinny." Moran smirked, shrugging as if this was the most obvious of facts. "You'd snap like a fucking twiglet."

"Wrong, but irrelevant." Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the sofa to face the older blonde man. "You're here on your own accord, then. Moriarty doesn't know."

"Well done, Point Dexter; do you want a medal?"

"… You're here about John."

"Hurrah, praise the lord. The penny drops."He drawled sarcastically.

Sherlock oscillated in his seat, fingers twitching agitatedly. Moran was fast getting on his nerves. "Do be quick about it; I've got things to be doing."

"Like what?" Moran picked an imaginary hair from his jeans. "Mope over your boyfriend some more? Cry?"

"Work on destroying your boss' entire organisation?"

"Touché," Moran rocked forward and clasped his hands together, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. For a second, a gleam of uncertainty crossed his marred face.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted.

"Awh, jeez; I don't really know how to say this," Moran ran a hand over his face, cradling his jaw. "Right, well, I'll just put it to you straight. This isn't the first time Jim has pulled this trick on someone, it's been done before."

"He repeated himself?"

"If it ain't broke, don't fix it." Moran sighed heavily. "I didn't think he would pull this shit again. The things he is planning, man; it's sick. And coming from me, that's saying something."

"Interesting…" Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his chin. "What happened the last time?"

"He took an interest in this guy, Carl Powers. They were in the same class at college or something. Powers starting doing really well in their classes – totally slaughtering Jim's results. Made him feel stupid. So, he decided to do something about it. He got a guy from the army; like your John, and pulled the bank trick. It worked, and Powers fell for the guy."

"Heightened emotions in strenuous situations often work in bringing people together." Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah. So, anyway; Powers was completely devastated when he found out the truth. Couldn't handle it. Went crazy. Drowned himself in his local pool. And as soon as he was gone – Jim's attentions back lashed on the nearest person."

"The man from the army…"

"Exactly. But the guy, he didn't want anything to do with Jim. Time went on, and well, when Jim doesn't get what he wants, he gets angry…" Moran sucked in a rough breath through his nose. "He tortured the bloke. You ever heard of the book _1984_? It's by George, someone?"

Sherlock's ears pricked. "Heard of it, yes…"

"In the book, the main character is broken down, and then built up again to act how the Government want him to act. That's what he did to the poor bloke. Tortured him until he broke." Moran shook his head, plush lips pushing outward perpetually.

"And you believe he is going to do the same to John?" Sherlock inquired.

"If he doesn't, I'd be surprised. Once Jim's got an idea, he bloody well goes through with it."

Digesting this, Sherlock hovered. By helping Moriarty, John had unknowingly signed himself up for a life time of duty with the villain. He was going to be _tortured._ Ah, that word drove needles into Sherlock's chest. He rubbed the area over his heart numbly.

"There is one link missing in all this," Sherlock dropped his hands to point directly at Moran. "You."

"Me?"

"Yes. You. You've wholly gone against the man you work for; he could easily have you punished for this. What is it about this that has forced you to make a stand?"

Moran froze, his Adam's apple bobbing visible even from where Sherlock sat. "John, he's a nice bloke. I've been with him since the start. You have no idea how much is fucking killed me to hurt him. I don't want to see him get hurt."

"No, no, no – there's more…" With a flourish, Sherlock flung himself upwards, pacing with fervour. "There is something connecting you to this event; something personal."

There was silence, as Moran's blank expression implored Sherlock to catch on.

"It was you." Sherlock exhaled, "you were the man used to court Carl Powers."

Moran remained silent, his pulse jumping in his neck. He sat back in John's armchair, thick eyebrows drawing close. So it was true. Another wheel turned within Sherlock's brain.

"Ah, ah. That's it; that's Moriarty's weakness. Yes!" Sherlock turned and jumped, excitement seeping through every pore. "Oh, yes, yes, yes. Of course, it's so obvious."

"What? What do you mean weakness?" Moran's fingers tapped along the armchair distractedly.

"Moriarty, he underestimates human emotions. He can't see the depth that love, or affection run in the mind. That's how we'll beat him."

"Sorry? Wait, I'm lost, how are we going to beat him?"

Sherlock grinned, eyes bright for the first time in hours. "My John won't give up without a fight."


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Warnings – torture and gore. Sorry for the late chapter, I was horribly ill for a bit. Not fun. Please review, and send love. We'll get through this chapter together x**

**xxxxxxxx**

"Time to come and plaaaay, Johnny boy!"

John drew himself up from the vexatious bed of his cell and glared with hard eyes at the Irishman; his jaw snapping shut in a defiant reaction. His back unfurled and straightened as far as the searing throb of his shoulder would allow. The creases in his loose, ill-fitting clothes Sherlock had viewed him in but hours before had deepened; his blonde hair was dishevelled and sticking up in tufts. All in all, he had seen better days.

But that didn't still the look of contempt visible in Moriarty's sneer.

"Come on dear, we haven't got all night." When John withheld from moving, Moriarty stroked the door absentmindedly. "Moraaan? Put Watson in handcuffs. He's being annoying again."

The sniper appeared in the doorway of the cell; his face set in nonchalance, and wrenched John off the bed with unnecessary force. He turned him and secured his wrists in thick metal bands behind his back.

With as much subtly as the man could muster, Moran's lips brushed John's ear as he murmured, "I spoke to him."

A fission of anticipation shot through John's spine, almost jolting him visibly. "And?" He hissed in reply.

"You should see his face when he talks about you, man." Moran continued, checking the tightness of the handcuffs meticulously. "His whole face lights up like you're his fucking world."

John huffed a breath of relief. So Sherlock still had some feelings for him. Moriarty hadn't broken that bond. Good. That left him a degree of hope for when he eventually ended up on his knees, begging Sherlock to take him back. John knew he was no actor. Sure, he could spin out a few lines of Shakespeare if he was so asked, but he was too honest a person. Lying was never his forte. His surprise at the bank raid was genuine; the facts of the nearly the entire operation had been passed over him to leave him feeling as helpless as he looked. No need for acting that way. He could bluff it out, Moran had instructed him. Poker face. _Pretend it's all a game._

Except… it wasn't.

His feelings were _real_. The way his heart fluttered in his chest and his eyes went soft at the mere thought of Sherlock smiling was real. Instead of pretending he'd loved Sherlock, he'd damn well, inexplicably, heart-on-sleeve fell in love.

And he hadn't even gotten the chance to tell the man.

The door of the cell was pushed shut with a deafening clang as John was led through the generic grey corridors of the holding house. Moran's grip on his bound hands was weak, sympathetic to the pull the handcuffs were causing on John's shoulder. His back tensed unintentionally at the memory of the fury of Moriarty when John's injury was apparent. It was in no way Moran's fault; he hadn't been told John's location in the Humvee – how was he supposed to know John lay directly in the bullet's path as he took out the driver? Still. His ignorance had not allayed Moriarty's orders to have Moran's trim hips lashed with a whip. 20 lashes. He'd had to count them.

Moran knew for a fact three of John's comrades had survived said attack. Moriarty's acerbity over the bullet wound John received had blinded him to the retreating soldiers on the ridge but yards from them. The Apache helicopter Moran's men had subjected to RPG found them two miles south at the secondary LZ; the mysterious fabricated documents they had been ordered to deliver inexplicably forgotten. But Moriarty had only wanted John. All other incidents were irrelevant.

The room John was lead to was as foreboding as the smile plastered over Moriarty's pale face. It was grey on three walls, with a huge mirror obscuring the forth which John guessed was two sided. In the middle of the room were a table and two chairs, which sat facing each other. On one side of the table, two cuffs were secured to the surface, one for each wrist.

It was only when John's hands had been freed from the handcuffs and reattached to the cuffs on the table did he see the array of tools on a trolley behind the door. Moran turned to leave, hovering by the door fleetingly to leave John with a final message. _He'll find you,_ he mouthed, before shutting the door behind him, leaving John in the hands of the world's only consulting criminal. And a trolley of objects designed to _hurt._

"You know, I haven't had a phone call yet." John drawled, trying to dull the fear he knew was evident in his eyes. "I'm pretty sure I should be allowed a phone call."

"So you could call that doe-eyed detective of yours? Oh no, no, no, I don't think so." Moriarty jeered. The Irishman turned his back to rake his eyes over the cluster of sharp, metal tools, dragging a finger thoughtfully over the tip of a needle-sharp scalpel. "I suppose I should ask… Do you know what happens if you don't join my organisation. To you?" His voice was scathingly low.

"Oh, let me guess," John sighed theatrically, his heart thundering inside his chest. "I get killed."

To his surprise, Moriarty let out a sudden, high pitched giggle. "_Kill _you?" His fingers played over the collection of hammers, "No, don't be obvious. I mean, I will kill you anyway, some day... I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving up for something special. No, no, no. If you don't join me…" Finally, his restless digits settled over the blowtorch that sat inconspicuously at the back of the trolley. "I'm going to _burn _you."

_Shit. _John squirmed restlessly in his seats, suddenly quick to test the amount of constraint on his wrists.

"But then… you never have cared for your own pain, have you dear?" Moriarty mused quietly, his gaze straying from the blow torch and over his shoulder to capture John's eyes. He pouted. "The broken army doctor. So touchingly loyal… so… easily moulded."

"I fulfilled my contract." John seethed, panic coiling deeper in his gut. "The deal was that I would make Sherlock fall in love with me, and then I would get my father back."

"You've fulfilled _nothing_." Moriarty spat, his head oscillated to face John, and his body soon followed. He stalked forward, half aggravated at having to repeat himself. "Your job was to manipulate Holmes' feelings for you, not succumb to them."

Oh, but how that dry tone spiked anger in John's heart. The way Moriarty spoke of Sherlock's feelings as if they were nothing more than shit on his shoe made John want to wrap his hands around the bugger's neck and _squeeze_.

"You're sick." John shook his head in disgust, nose wrinkling.

"You're only just getting that now?" Moriarty's thin lips rose in a half smile. His hollow, dead eyes roamed John's body with apparent delight. "I'll forgive the fact you're slow just this once. Not everyone is a genius like me."

John coughed out a ragged laugh, "Genius? Is that what they call psychos these days?"

In a whirl of movement, Moriarty twisted back, grabbed a thick hammer, and in the same second brought it down on John's secured hand with horrific accuracy. It connected with his right forefinger with the sound of cracking bone and the splatter of blood.

"_Fuck_!"John screeched, the shock of pain firing through his veins. His finger now sat at a grotesque angle, bent back on itself over the back of John's hand. Blood trickled from the wound with the beat of his heart.

"When will you _learn_, Johnny?" Moriarty tittered, eyes perusing the broken finger with bored disregard.

"Learn what? How to address a fucking maniac?" John bit, wheezing through the pain.

The hammer came down a second time on John's middle finger, and then again. Bone, stark white, peeked through the flesh of John's digits through the mess of blood that pooled around the appendage. John bit his lip enough to break the skin, trying in vain to suppress his cries of agony.

"Stop- being- _BORING!" _Moriarty roared, punctuating each word with another sick strike to the broken flesh of John's mangled fingers.

"You are my toy, John Watson; you are here for my pleasure. I _control_ you. I _own_ you. You are mine to play with. Mine to _break_."

The hammer was placed down with contrasting gentleness of the table. Moriarty regarded it as he spoke, his thin lips pushed outwards petulantly.

"I could have treated you so well, Johnny. It was all going so well. I was going to have you made head of an entire division of my organisation. But no…" The smooth ridge of Moriarty's nose wrinkled as he grimaced morbidly; his eyes blazed like cold fire.

"I- I don't want anything to do with you," John rasped, forcing his tear-stained eyes open to glare accusingly at his captor. "You might as well kill me."

At that, horrid, empty mask of emotions fell across Moriarty's face. He became blank. Unreadable. "Moran said that." He said, devoid of emotion.

There was a pause, just a fraction of a second of silence, but it was long enough for John to realise he was supposed to have reacted in surprise. Suddenly, acting classes seemed like the best fucking idea he'd ever had.

"I knew it. He told you." Moriarty ground his jaw, head tilting and oscillating once more. "Another pathetic soldier acting for the greater good. Isn't it _hateful_?"

"He told me because he had to," John stuttered, desperate to cover up his mistake. "People have died."

"That's what people _DO!"_ Moriarty bellowed, once again breaking from his blank mask. John's eyes shot open in alarm. Moriarty's palms slapped vehemently against the table and he leaned forward, his eyes glinting evilly, until John could feel the man's breath careening his worn face.

"You disappoint me." Moriarty stated, grimace deepening. "Honestly. I'm almost surprised. This, all this, is down to your pathetic father. If he had of followed my orders and handed over the military plans Camp Bastion was safe holding then you wouldn't be here paying off his debt."

"W-what?" John blinked furiously in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

Moriarty tilted his head, amusement gleaning his expression. "What? You don't know about this? Oh this is too gooood! John Watson Junior, completely obvious to the fact his father was a terrorist. Oh, it's Christmas!"

The words hit home with a crippling thud to the heart. Suddenly, the pain in John's hand was replaced with pain in his chest.

"My dad was not a _terrorist_," John spat the word as if it was poison. "You sick fuck, you say that one more time and I'll-"

"You'll what?" Moriarty drawled with contempt, pulling away, "Breathe on me? Say nasty things? Oh, you _wound _me." He rolled his eyes. "Your daddy dear was working for me the entire time he was in Afghanistan. You wouldn't believe the secrets I got from him… He was _so_ desperate to please me."

"Stop it." John spat, knowing he was revealing a weakness, but unable to stop himself.

"All those men that died when we came for him, all those men that died when we came for _you…"_ Moriarty huffed a giggle. "You Watsons really do know how to spice things up."

"My dad was a good man," John replied scathingly, more to himself than to the Irishman. "He would never work for you. Ever."

"True. Not unless he had an incentive…" Moriarty straightened his back until he practically towered over John's crumpled form. "I'll admit he was strong – stronger than you anyway. But everyone has their breaking point…"

John's eyes flickered upwards to catch Moriarty's expression in unknowing submission.

"You were his, dear." Moriarty smiled ruefully. "All we had to do was threaten you and that sister of yours and he was on his knees before you can say, 'Suck my dick'."

Thoughts were blurring and twisting inside John's mind, hazed in pain and fatigue. Why was he fighting again? What was the point? His dad had given in, killed countless people to do Moriarty's bidding. Why not follow the family tradition? Moriarty wasn't going to give in until he gave up his soul…

Moriarty watched on, reading the vivid emotions playing across John's face like a book. There is was. That familiar flicker of uncertainly that would grow until John was left with no option but to accept Moriarty's way. And what a moment that would be. _Finally_ breaking John Watson…

"Just say the word and all this will stop, Johnny boy." Moriarty murmured, his voice lowering to a tender a tone as he could manage. "I know you're confused… but I can make all that stop… Just say you'll join me, and everything will be just fine… Come on… Let go…"

John narrowed his eyes, teeth grinding together. No. No. He would fight. Even if it damn well killed him. He was fighting for love. And there was no stronger power than that.

"I will _never_ join you." John hissed, eyes burning. "You piece of _shit._"

Just like flicking off a switch, the compassion fell from Moriarty's face. He turned and gripped a thick handle poking from the mass of tools. "Well then…" He pondered for a moment, before wrenching the handle upwards as if he was pulling a sword from its sheath.

"I guess we'll have to start with the riding crop."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Four words – shit hits the fan. (Things can only get better from here, don't worry).**

The riding crop had little success on John, but Moriarty was sly. He knew the different levels of pain a man could endure – but he also was well equipped with knowledge on the varying _types_ of pain. John had shown impressive levels of endurance, pain-wise. He would make an excellent addition to Moriarty's team, once he broke. But there were other ways to make the army doctor squeal.

The seventh time the whip sliced into John's back he screamed and _oh, _what a beautiful sound that was to Moriarty's ears.

John couldn't stop himself; the way the leather cut deep into his skin and flayed against the bone of a rib caused the most indescribable agony. With a whimper, he sagged, finally defeated. He simply had no fight left in him. Sweat ran from his chin, and down the bared contours of his spine; thinking was impossible.

"Stop!" He gasped, voice thick with panting and disuse. "_Please_!"

Moriarty sprang forward from his chair where he had been sitting, a look of amusement on his face. With a wave of his hand, Moriarty ordered Moran to place the whip down. Moran had wanted to hinder John's pain – so Moriarty had him be the one to cause it.

This was it.

John shifted uncomfortably against his bonds, the way his arms were wrenched over his head attached to the ceiling causing him more pain by the second. Black spots flashed dangerously in his vision. The Irishman cupped John's tear-streaked face in his hands with disturbing softness.

"Had enough, dear?" He murmured, breath hot against John's mouth, brown eyes wide. John just nodded, slowly, focussing his dwindling concentration on forcing his lidded eyes open.

"Good… there's a good boy…" Moriarty muttered, his tone as gentle as his touch. Hesitantly, he drew his crooked finger over John's cheek, slick with sweat. "_I think you're ready_."

xxxxxxx

It took Sherlock a mere four seconds to come to the conclusion of John's location. It was simple. Stupidly so. The matter that kept him from acting on his deduction was: when he arrived at Moriarty's lair… How exactly did he plan on retrieving John? It wasn't as if the heavily armed guards were just going to let him pass.

He considered brassiness; simply using Mycroft's credentials to ascertain the phone number for the building and demand to be put through to Moriarty. But that would alert Moriarty to his plans.

He deliberated with rounding up a group of the arsonist-types in the Homeless Network to inflame the building to drive the spider from his web. But that would be considerably risky. It was logical to assume John was restrained in some manor, and so in the event of a fire he would have no way of escape.

He contemplated offering himself in John's place. To take John's pain as his own. To insure John's safety. _His_ John. But John wouldn't allow that. His headstrong, intrepid John would tear down London to retrieve Sherlock, if he so had to.

That loyalty had to be repaid. No, not loyalty. _Love._

_Love._ Such a short, inconsequential word and yet it lingered, buzzing warmly with gentle intent around Sherlock's skull. He would file that word away for further analysis. He had to deal on the problem in hand, not get distracted. Of course, when John was safe, if he was up for helping Sherlock deduce the true reasons and feelings behind love, who would Sherlock be to close of that area of interest?

Had he been pervading Moriarty's lair simply from bitterness, he found himself thinking, flaws would have wrecked his plans. Bitterness was a paralytic. Love… was a much more vicious motivator.

Finding himself at a loss, the detective hurled himself from the sofa of the living room and wandered somewhat aimlessly around the flat. Until he found himself in John's room.

He had avoided entering the room since John's abscond to Afghanistan – too many emotions overwhelmed him when he insinuated himself inside it. Loss. Hurt. Distress. He remembered when they first found themselves at the flat, and John's indignant reaction at having separate rooms.

"_It's not like we won't be sleeping together…" _Sherlock had all but purred into John's ear, finding himself smiling at the shiver that ran down John's spine. "_But we'll both need our own space…"_

Immediately, he had regretted such a proposal. The extra room would have done wonders as a space for more experiments, and he often found himself in John's bed simply because his own was covered in God knows what after an unprecedented outcome to a chemical reaction. John hadn't minded. As long as the experiment with the dried intestines hanging along the clothes horse wasn't repeated, John didn't mind one bit.

The room was tidy, military, just as John had left it. The bed was made, clean beige sheets, with a slight indent to the right of the bed where John would sleep. On the bedside table was one of the many photos John was so fond of taking – this time one he had received from a rather smug looking Lestrade. It was of the two lovers with identical looks of unamusement, right eyebrows raised – mouths tilted down at the corners, as Anderson tried gallantly to get a photo of them smiling together. John had said he liked that photo because thinking of how incredibly thick Anderson was reminded him he wasn't as stupid as Sherlock liked to make out. Sherlock replied, rather grudgingly, that John _wasn't_ as stupid as he made out. John spent the rest of the day looking like he had won the lottery.

The rest of the room was rather bare; laundry folded and put away. Sherlock took a step forward to thumb his way into a drawer, only half aware he was doing so. The majority of his mind was reverberating with thoughts on how to get John back, not on searching through John's tighty-whiteys.

As he pulled the drawer open, his gaze fell upon a curiosity. A small, leather bound notebook, half hidden. John's diary.

Ah, but he shouldn't. He recoiled instantly, suddenly alert to his current situation. He shouldn't invade John's privacy as such. It was wrong; John trusted him not to do so. And yet…

What was one look between sweethearts?

Before he could tell himself otherwise, Sherlock tugged the book from the drawer and flicked it open. His sight was filled with the familiar sight of John's messy doctor's scrawl. It was endlessly fascinating, not the text, but John's way with it. You could visibly see areas of script where he had become so endlessly excited his writing became two sizes bigger and flew across the page. There were doodles in the margins – one particularly caricatured drawing of Mycroft with a cake as a body, which had Sherlock's eyes crinkle in amusement. Oh, John.

Mostly, the diary was filled with recollections of cases, and John's perpetual amazement at Sherlock's deductions. Names and dates and half remembered conversations peppered the paper, areas of which were smudged in biro ink due to his left-handedness.

There was a certain page that caught Sherlock's tireless gaze.

[-not really sure what happened there,] it read, [but hey, what can you do? So I say to him, "You can't be serious?" And he replies with, "Of course I'm serious, why wouldn't I be serious?" And ooh God, he had that bloody smile on that makes you want to rub kittens on his face. I'd never had Sherlock down for a "cute" bloke – (see: every existing fucking picture of the guy) – but that damn smile! You can't do anything against that smile! Argh! So I say yes, obviously. I bloody say yes. And then there I am, going on a goddamn date with Sherlock Holmes STILL WEARING A CARDIGAN.]

Sherlock caught himself smiling gently. Their date night. How touching. He flicked the page, suddenly enveloped with John's voice that filled his head when he read his writing.

[-to a maniac. What would Harry say? Actually, I don't even have to ask that she would probably encourage me. She always was the upfront one. Probably why she always had more girlfriends than me. And didn't she bloody go on about it! Typical Watson. Anyway, so I'm there in the kitchen the morning after the "date" making tea when I hear this noise. It was sort of like… snuffling? Is that a noise? Like really weird breathing. I'm thinking – 'Oh God it's Norman Bates.' because apparently I'm scared of film characters now, and go out into the living room to see if I was about to be stabbed by a bloke who dresses up like his mum (now there would be a epitaph to remember, haha). It wasn't Norman Bates, obviously. It was Sherlock. I'd left him on the sofa wearing one of my old shirts and he'd somehow managed to sprawl across the entire bloody sofa like some sort of plant. He was still making noises! Half snoring- half pining, I'll call it. The sod sounded like he was in pain or something. I put down the tea (which I hadn't been wielding as a weapon – what are you saying?) and kneel by him on the floor and say, "Hey, you alright?" just to check up on him. And the weirdest thing happens. He proper starts pining! He half opens his eyes and pulls me into his arms until I was practically crushed into his chest and says, "I thought you'd left."

I have to tell you, my heart proper broke. Like, spilled out onto the floor. I kept thinking, 'I can't do this anymore, I can't do this.' I nearly told him everything right there and then. Christ. I'd bet anything that the poor bloke has never had anyone love him like I'm 'pretending' to, and now oh fuck he's talking about me leaving and I'm going to, and oh God this isn't part of the plan and urgh! And then it hits me. I'm not pretending anymore. The sneaky bastard has made me fall for him. So I wrap my arms around him and say, "I won't ever leave you." I _know_. Deep, right? So damn cheesy. But it was true at the time, I suppose. I don't want to leave him, of course I don't. I've got to start planning something if I ever want to keep him. I'm not going to choose between him and my Dad; that's just ridiculous. I set out years ago to get Dad back and I will do that if it fucking kills me. But in doing so, Sherlock will find out the truth. Bugger. You've really gone and done it this time, John, haven't you? "Got yourself into a right pickle." as Mum would say. Fuck, you know times are bad when I'm quoting my own mother.

I just have to let him know what we have together is real.]

Sherlock closed the diary slowly. That was all the confirmation he needed. John loved him too.

_Excellent._

From that spark, a plan spread like wildfire through his mind. Keep it simple. He would infiltrate Moriarty's headquarters using one of the Homeless Network. There, the homeless person would set off a fire alarm/ pass out/ require medical assistance, and in the following disarray, he would sneak in unnoticed-

There was a sudden knock at the door.

Breaking from his revere, Sherlock started, the diary falling from his grasp. There was another knock – harder this time, more violent. A client, maybe? A distressed one at that. Lestrade would have texted first if there was a case he needed assistance on-

A final, impassioned knock. Then silence.

How interesting. Curious now, Sherlock made his way downstairs. With soft footsteps he rounded the stairs, half inspecting Mrs Hudson to bustle out to answer the door before he could. Quickly, he bent over the banister to view her door.

_Door locked, but not bolted from the inside, second lock left undone – she left in a hurry then. Hm._

Stepping forward and reaching out he yanked the front door open violently, suddenly half annoyed at having being broken from his plans of retrieving his beloved, then practically stumbled backwards in surprise.

Standing gingerly on the steps of 221b was his John Watson.

Except… it wasn't.

The way he stood – bent inwards, was so different from the old confident straight of his back. His face – his beautiful face - was screwed in pain, pale and drawn with fatigue. And his eyes, _his eyes._ No longer were they bright and gleaming, but cold and dead in his skull. Hollow. He was but a shadow of who he was; no longer the man Sherlock had fallen in love with. Moriarty had broken him.

Perhaps the most surprising of all was the gun he held in his hand, raised stiffly and pointing directly between Sherlock's eyes. Point blank range.

His finger tightened around the trigger.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This chapter obviously does not want to upload. My apologies for the wait.**

**xxxxxxx**

They stood before each other with measured stillness. John was dressed in black, a contrast to the sickly pallor his skin had taken on. He wore tight jeans and a loose top worn under a leather jacket; none of which was his own. The hand that did not hold the gun was bandaged neatly and cradled to his chest weakly. His trainers were new and barely scuffled. Bought _for_ him. Dressed up like Jim's own version of a doll. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that John's hair held furrows, as if fingers had been repeatedly dragged through it. The thought of someone else touching John in such a way set the back of his neck prickling and his mouth twitching a snarl. _No one_ was allowed to touch John, but him. Possessiveness like a thorn in his side flared violently.

As John clicked the safety off his gun, time slowed into a measured crawl; basic survival instinct took over.

_Shoulder hunched inwards, bullet wound; first point of attack. Two: throat, paralyse vocal chords, stop scream that will alert passers-by. Three: weakened ribs, shot to the solar plexus. Four: finally fist to patella. Summary prognosis: unconscious in ninety seconds, martial efficacy quarter of an hour at best. _

_Ability to fire a bullet through head: neutralised._

There was no way around it; he had to be cruel to be kind, surely. By overpowering John he would live and free them both from his mess. Before Sherlock could act on any of his hastily prepared stratagem, something happened.

John - his fascinating, surprising John - quirked a smile.

An infinitesimal, glance of a smile, but a smile all the same. A smile that spoke of promise. It disappeared as soon as it had arrived, but the gesture was unmistakably recognisable.

"When I fire, fall to the ground." His mouth twitched as he spoke hushed and raw, barely moving his thin lips. "They're watching us."

The muscle in Sherlock's jaw jumped as he ground it, unnerved, his face empty of emotion. This new, cold-eyed John enervated him. But… what choice did he have, exactly? Either he could follow John's order and risk death, or dispute it and all but certain his murder.

In the very back of his mind, a bright light was shining – clear and as bright as the sky in June. John was _back_ and his heart sang with it. Sherlock's mind lingered distantly on the diary he had uncovered; evidence of John's immovable trust and love. Trust. What a luxury that would be.

He made his decision. In a movement scarcely more than a twitch, Sherlock nodded, a tuck of his chin, just the once.

John's forefinger constricted around the trigger, and with a horrid, solid _bang_ the gun fired, directly where it was aimed at the centremost of Sherlock's skull.

Flailing, Sherlock fell to the ground, head jerking backwards from the force of the bullet, lithe limbs sprawling and hitting the carpet. He lolled, as pathetic as a rag doll, to the side and his eyes fixated with a glassy cover. A crimson cascade painted the pale expanse of his forehead, a single drop running down and collecting the hollow of his temple. The shallow rise and fall of his chest ceased and stilled until he no longer moved.

John lowered the gun, a look of unsettlingly indifference over his features and waited.

After a moment of thick silence, the walkie-talkie fixed to John's waist crackled and blared.

"_Well done, John I know that couldn't have been easy for you. Jim will be damn pleased." _Moran's voice filtered through the device, rough and tinny. "_Now drag the body inside and finish the job. Over."_

With a flick of his wrist, John grasped the walkie-talkie and held it to his mouth. "Copy that, over." He stated simply, before rehooking it to his belt, stepping inside 221 and closing the door behind him with a solemn thud.

They were alone.

"Honey, I'm home." He drawled half-heartedly into the hallway.

John bent at the waist to hold his good hand out for Sherlock to take, a soft crinkle forming in the corner of his eyes. The lax figure at his feet remained frozen for a second longer before rasping out a breath and blinking away the gloss that covered his eyes. Ignoring the offered hand, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, drawing himself up to his formidable height. A flash of something unrecognisable glinted in his expression.

John blanched, those kind eyes Sherlock had always loved glistened behind his lids. "Please don't punch me." He pleaded weakly, eying the violent bruise expanding across Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock huffed, creasing his eyebrows together with a soft groan. He felt as if a horse had kicked him square in the face. "Paintball gun. Nice."

"Well, I couldn't _not_ shoot you," John sighed, exasperated, with a drop of his shoulders. "Moran would've taken you out. This-" He indicated the gun. "-was the best I could come up with short notice. It was that or a rubber bullet and-"

"John,"

"-Statistically that's more likely to cause damage and so I thought-"

"John,"

"-If I went with the pellet then I could fire as I would with a real bullet and not risk-"

A hand placed along the length of John's cheek stilled his nervous babble. Sherlock's lips crept up into a smile, and his voice dropped an octave lower until it was practically ripped from his throat.

"I do believe you haven't said hello, yet."

John's eyes widened with an almost childish innocence. He peered up at Sherlock with tentative hesitation. "So am I forgiven?"

"Completely." Sherlock replied instantly, mouth hanging open slightly, his expression willing John to close the distance and place their lips on each other. _Stop talking already_!

But still John hesitated, "I meant about everything, about this whole fucking situation. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could've spared you any of this I would have. I mean, _Christ_, Sherlock I think I lo-"

The rest of John's words were crushed back into his mouth by Sherlock's lips and he lunged forward, sucking John's bottom lip in and refusing to release it. John's hands fumbled against Sherlock's arms before sliding around his back and pulling him in closer. Their kiss was unhurried, simply a familiarisation. The familiar, warm sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his own sent John insane; he gripped Sherlock tighter and teased his mouth open with his lips, until their tongues slid over each other. The feeling of _that_ caused Sherlock to gasp, whining contently. Together again, _at last_.

Sherlock was the first to pull back, his face comically serious.

"I do expect you to be in charge of washing up for the following months, though." He smirked, unable to keep a straight face at John's horrified expression. John _loathed_ washing up.

"Hmm, something tells me I'll be trying to find a way out of that…" John chuckled, loosening iron grip on Sherlock's frame. He captured Sherlock's slim fingers in his own, and tugged him towards the stares, "Introductions over; let's go upstairs. I'll explain everything."

Sherlock allowed himself to be led up the stairs of 221, teetering gently due to the pounding of his skull. That was sure to form into a terrific migraine later.

The two of them found their way into their living room. John shot forward to shut the blinds before Sherlock came into view from the window, hissing a quiet sigh of relief when he couldn't spot Moran's lingering figure in the empty house opposite. The 'blood' pouring from Sherlock's skull must have been enough to convince him the job had been done.

"I was sent here to kill you," John turned from the window, wincing as his shirt grazed his back wounds and switched on the lamp to repel the darkness of the impending night, "Obviously. Right now I'm supposed to be staging your suicide."

"You aren't particularly good at assassination, John." Sherlock frowned, as if this fact annoyed him, lingering in the doorway. "No one commits suicide by firing a bullet through their forehead; you should have fired at my temple or below my jaw."

John shot Sherlock with a long-suffering look. "Oh, OK; I'll remember that for the next time I'm sent to kill you – thanks for the advice." He went to settle in his armchair, but was caught by a spindly arm working its way around his waist. Sherlock guided him to the sofa and collapsed onto it, pulling John into his lap. The blonde sucked a breath in through his teeth as the arm of the sofa pressed vehemently against his back, and leaned forward to tuck his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

The two of them shifted against each other; the soft of John's belly connecting with the sharp corner of Sherlock's elbow momentarily before they slotted together like teenagers about to endeavour in a movie.

"This has gotten so out of control," John said simply. He was warm and pliant in Sherlock's arms, as if all the fight had been sucked out of him suddenly. After days of non-stop pain, confusion and suffering he finally had a moment to reflect – and it didn't look good. He peeked up from underneath his fringe; it had grown out since Sherlock had last seen him. "How much have you deduced?"

Sherlock held John's gaze. "Your dad had connections with Moriarty before yourself." In reply, John nodded slowly. It hurt to see, but Sherlock could easily recognise the flares of betrayal half hidden in his eyes. John had thought his dad a war hero – it could not have been easy to discover otherwise.

"Four years back when troops attacked our convoy, I thought it was just another band of rebels who'd spotted our vehicle. Turns out it was Moriarty's men needing my dad back." John laughed without any humour, a harsh snort. "The rebels took him, and he was presumed dead. So many men died, _good _men." A sigh. "Three years later I get a letter telling me my dad was alive and if I wanted I could get him back. At first, I thought it was just some sick fucker joking around, but then one night I was last to leave the cafeteria at Camp and I see a bloke walking up to me…" He shuddered noiselessly; obviously reliving the moment in his mind.

Sherlock cocked his head and stroked John's hand absentmindedly, intent. "Go on,"

With a sigh John continued, "It was Moran. He explained that my dad was being contained in a facility back in England by a guy called Moriarty, and if I ever wanted to see him again I would have to do exactly what he says. I didn't want to be believe him, but- he had photos-" John drew a breath for courage. "-Photos of my dad being tortured. So what else could I do? I said yes."

"So you were never in direct contact with Moriarty?"

"No, I didn't know who the hell he was until a week back in Afghanistan." John glanced down to where Sherlock was playing with his fingers.

Sherlock contemplated this for a few moments; "And Moran?"

"I hardly saw him up until the bank raid. He said he was supposed to look after me." John scoffed. "Yeah, like he didn't enjoy beating the shit out of me on camera. But… it was weird; he was never a bad person towards me. Ever. He was alright. So when he told me the story with him and Carl Powers, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the bloke. He even called me his friend, once."

At this, Sherlock couldn't help but start. "He must have formed an emotional attachment to you. Your predicament reflected his own."

"Exactly." John leaned further into Sherlock's lap, finding comfort in the warmth of his boyfriend's body. "He doesn't know about this though. He thinks you're dead."

"I'm almost impressed." Sherlock teased gently, and was met an amused huff. The two of them paused for breath, a natural gap forming in John's narrative.

"I'll have to leave, soon." John gave Sherlock's fingers a regretful squeeze. "They'll be expecting me at the end of the road at 10." He glanced sideways at the clock; he had forty minutes left.

"You don't have to go," Sherlock muttered softly, his lips finding place in John's soft hair. "Stay. I'll phone Mycroft and he can have his men capture Moran-" He stopped, feeling John shake his head softly.

"That'll alert Moriarty. He'll have my dad killed, Sherlock."

Sherlock almost growled in frustration; as long as John's dad remained in captivity, John was little more than a pawn in Moriarty's power. The sooner they broke that link, the sooner John would be free to act on his own will once more.

"And besides," John was still speaking, "I can't imagine your brother being particularly willing to help me out due to the fact… y'know…" He sighed, "I let Moriarty manipulate you."

Yes, there was that; Sherlock thought with a groan. Mycroft would more than likely want to take his revenge on John should he know of his presence.

"I mean, he already gave Moriarty information on my mum," John's voice became very small suddenly. His gaze fell upon his own bandaged hand, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I heard Moriarty talking about it. He used it against me; said I was too pathetic to care for my own mum and that's why I joined the army."

A heavy bubble of anger grew and flexed inside Sherlock's chest. His grip on John's digits tightened to an almost dangerous extent. John peered upwards, startled, and was met with Sherlock's burning scrutiny.

"That _fucking_ bastard." Sherlock snarled, his nose curling upwards in a snarl. John blinked in surprise; Sherlock _never_ swore. "That fat, smarmy git. I'm going to _kill_ him-!"

"Woh, woh, woh," John pressed a tender hand to the red flush rising on Sherlock's neck. "He's your brother, you can't expect him not to be angry-"

"He had no right!" Sherlock exploded, his chest vibrating with a repressed growl. "He had no right to cause you pain! And _oh_, I'm going to make him pay…"

John's frowned deepened. As much as he hated Sherlock's brother, he had no intent on turning Sherlock against him. "Could you stop plotting for just a second, yeah?" He purposefully lowered his tone, and glimpsed at Sherlock through his eyelashes. "I have to leave in a bit, so why don't we make the most of our time together?"

The blatant, frankly adorable sex face John was attempting threw Sherlock off his stride. Damn, John and his infuriating delightful appearance; he was trying to be angry here! But John persisted, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in an endearing smile and his eyebrows raising expectantly. It was all Sherlock could do not to throw him to the floor and have him right there and then on the carpet.

But John was injured, he remembered painfully. He would have to treat him carefully.

As if handling the most delicate of evidence, he wound his arms around John's firm waist and bent his head to kiss him deeply, with as much adoration as he could muster. John went docile in his grasp and moaned softly, his unbandaged hand winding its way into Sherlock's thick curls.

Was this the right time? Should he say it now? Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and became slightly cross-eyed as he viewed John's face; so perfect in his vision. Should he tell him and make the moment perfect? But in saying the words… it almost felt like a death sentence. The first time he said it, could quickly become the last time, should John never return - and how that thought tightened his chest…

It would have to wait. He would make a time for it to be said. Even if it killed him.

John broke away from the kiss, panting, lips full and red. "I- I should go." He stuttered uncertainly, finding himself unwilling to leave the safety of Sherlock's arms.

"Go, then." Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. "Leave everything to me."

John looked at him in surprise. No longer were his eyes empty and hollow, but instead lit up with unhidden ardour. It warmed Sherlock's heart.

"I guess I'll see you around then," John tittered weakly, trying and failing to attempt a farewell smile.

"It will all turn out alright, John; I know it will." Sherlock stroked his thumb over John's cheek, reassuring himself as much as his lover. "Trust me."

"I do." John answered, then caught himself with a blush. "Trust you, I mean; I do trust you, not-"

"Oh, I do, too." Sherlock smirked, finding John's flustering endlessly endearing but needing it to stop all the same.

They shared a final, long glance before John unfolded himself from Sherlock's lap with a reluctant groan, and a hiss of pain. As he straightened, he fixed his jacket and tugged up the zip.

"Don't leave the flat or open the windows." He instructed. "You're supposed to be dead, remember."

"I'll do my best."

John turned to leave, hesitating just slightly. Sherlock did not move from the sofa, but slid his gaze from John to the coffee table. There sat a long forgotten newspaper, adorned with the headline; "BANK BOMBED IN HOSTAGE SITUATION."

A story from a life time ago.

With out another word, John made his way down the stairs of 221 and out into the hallway. Pointedly, he slammed the front door, and the flat was silent once more. It felt as if a piece of Sherlock's heart had been caught in John's pocket and taken with him.

Sherlock leant forward to grab at the newspaper and threw it inattentively to one side. Underneath lay his last packet of nicotine patches. He dredged three from the packet and placed them with meticulous fingers in line across his arm.

Evidently, it was a three patch problem.

As the drug began to course through his veins, he settled back with a contented sigh against the softness of the sofa; fingers tracing his full lips with the memory of John's imprint against them.

The crux of the problem was simply John's dad; finding and retrieving him would unravel the tangled thread of the dilemma and leave John free from Moriarty's power.

Just as the sun set, he steepled his hands in front of him.

Sherlock began to think.


	16. Chapter 16

Two days later and no one had had passed through the door of 221 save Mrs Hudson. No one took the 17 steps up to 221b, nor did anyone question the insubstantial amount of noise that usually filtered its way through the thin walls.

John watched the CCTV footage in silence.

Not once did the curtains twitch, nor the blinds shiver. It was as disconcerting as it was pleasing. Sherlock obviously had heeded John's warning but… For all John knew, Sherlock had indeed perished – not by John's hand, but instead a freak chemical-based accident. It honestly wouldn't be too equivocal an idea; the foreboding cloud of yellow fumes that hung, unexplained, across the kitchen ceiling had long been labelled too hazardous for human interaction and yet Sherlock insisted on testing it regularly for changes. There were weapons of every persuasion hidden within the crevices of the sofa; countless enticing poisons in unlabeled cartons; the lurking piece of uncooked chicken that Sherlock had used on numerous occasions to beguile John into making him tea, under the guise he would eat the chicken should he not.

All in all, Sherlock was a hazard to himself and those within a thirty mile radius of him. And it was this fact that had John's vigilant caring streak flare up within him.

John sat alone in the CCTV room within Liberty House, blinking away the lethargy providing his eyelids with a familiar heavy feeling. Liberty House was the secluded country home Moriarty owned in aid of training new editions to his cooperation. The room John was currently in was small, but comfortingly so. It had been too long since he had been allowed time by himself – Jim insisting John was provided with a companion for the journey from London deep down into the West Country and then Moran badgering him incessantly asking if he was feeling alright. A little alone time was exactly what the Doctor ordered.

Except it seemed Moran had other ideas on the matter.

Hearing the all too familiar click of the door, John twisted in his seat to see the habitual sight of Moran's blond hair poking from around the mahogany – a rueful half smile defining the scars and contours along his handsome face.

"Have you seen my Marksman?" He queried, green eyes roaming the room, "If Jim's got his hands on it all hell will break loose."

"Haven't seen it, mate." John replied. "But if Jim has got it you are _royally_ fucked; he said he wanted a gun to use on Davies when he took a shower."

"Fuck." Moran spat, storming forward and reaching out to place an identical wooden chair next to John's, setting it down and straddling it. "You can't have a gun in this place without it being fuckin' used on a naked bloke."

John couldn't help but smirk gently. "You got that right."

Shaking his head, Moran scratched his head absentmindedly. John could see delineation in his hair; parts that fell longer than the rest. He must have cut it himself again. Often now, John found himself in tune with Moran's habits – a military man like himself had habits and routines, and it was rare to see Moran falter from them. He had no doubt Moran had memorised his routines in turn.

"House hunting?" Moran smirked, spotting Baker Street on the nearest monitor.

"Double checking." John deadpanned, familiar now with the concept of joking about death. "Y'know, in case I missed."

This caused Moran to snort lightly. With a roll of his eyes he announced; "Not even _you_ could miss from point blank range, Watson."

"And that's as close to a compliment as I'm going to get from you, isn't it?" John chuckled, his boyish face crinkling in amusement, "Awh shucks."

"Shut the fuck up, Cinderella, or the only thing coming your way will be my fist." Moran retorted, eyes narrowing. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"The _only_ thing coming my way?" John responded, with a coyish raise of his eyebrow- utterly unable to pass up such a blatant chance for an innuendo.

The sniper only narrowed his eyes further.

"You really are asking for it, aren't you?" He asked. The two blonds eyed each other with playful glints in their eyes.

Intent on gaining a rise from his acquaintance and therefore buying himself some time alone, John continued, "You know if I didn't know you any better I'd say you were flirting with me, Moran."

"Bitch, please." Moran slinked backwards against the back of the chair, his lips curling almost inexplicably. "If I was flirting with you, you'd damn well know about it."

John put on his most convincing condescending tone; "You couldn't flirt with Jim on viagra if you needed to."

Shifting again, Moran's piercing gaze became almost predatory; half leering, half threatening. The small surveillance room seemed to shrink slightly. "I could have you whenever I wanted, kid; don't pretend you don't know who you're messin' with here."

"You're not as big as you think you are, Moran." John leant forward to begin switching off the several screens he had been viewing – heart firmly pounding in his throat. He felt the small tickle of a breath careening his ear as Moran bent closer, positioning himself unflinchingly within John's personal space.

"Oh yes I am." He hissed dangerously.

xxxxxxxx

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Mycroft had deceased from answering his mobile.

Drip. Drip... Drip.

Heaving an agitated breath, Sherlock paced across the rug.

Drip.

Sherlock had freely admitted his possessive streak; his need to control and be _in_ control, and now it was howling inside him, clawing at his sides. _Get John back_, the possessive creature writhed as it howled, pained, _he is _yours_ – not Moriarty's._

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He had broken the tap again. Controlled explosion. An outlet for his anger. Dull. Uninteresting. Monotonous. Insipid. Not John. Need John.

Drip... Drip…

How had John expected him to stay unnoticed within the confines of his own flat? Yes, it was commonplace for him to stay practically comatose for weeks at a time; capitulated in his own mind in reflection, but now he had reason to pace – reason to break free.

And as much as it pained him, he needed his brother if he was to go through with his plan.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Bleep.

_Finally._

Snatching up his mobile from the coffee table, he accepted the incoming call with nimble fingers.

"I need a favour." He blurted, before his own arrogance could still his tongue. He could practically hear his brother widening his eyes in shock.

"What kind of a favour, brother dear?" Came Mycroft's sonorous tones, pitched higher in surprise.

"I know what you did." Sherlock lowered his voice threateningly, "I _know_ that you gave Moriarty information to hurt John, _brother,"_ He spat the word with vehemence. "And I am warning you; if you don't aid me in his recovery I will burn the GPS chip I know for a fact is placed within this iPhone and you will never see me again. That I can freely promise you."

There was the faint buzz of silence resonating from the other end of the line, broken only by Mycroft's sharp intake of breath.

"That man is a farce and a coward; I will have no hand in returning him to you. His love for you was _fake_, Sherlock, and as much as it torments me to point it out, the sooner you cease in your pining for him, the easier it will be to ease him from your heart."

The matter-of-fact tone Mycroft had adopted sent fissions of ice-cold annoyance along Sherlock's spine. The detective launched back into his pacing, his free fist curling and uncurling as his anger came and subsided periodically.

"It's honourable to hear just how much faith you put in me, Mycroft, that I cannot endeavour to make a man fall in love with me." He snarled. It had been difficult enough concreting the idea of John's love in his mind without Mycroft's dismissal of it – but John and his previous encounter two days back had helped, if only a small bit.

"I have no doubt that one day you will come across someone whom is worthy of your love. " Mycroft admitted, "But that day is yet to come, Sherlock. And the sooner you realise that, the better."

"You know what," Sherlock pondered, "I've heard Africa is delightful this time of year. My previous threat still stands, Mycroft. You know me to be a man of my word and I will not hesitate to-"

"_Must_ you be so stubborn!" Mycroft roared, suddenly. Sherlock seized up in surprised, eyebrows flying up his forehead. "Can't you see this man is no good for you?"

Mycroft's rage had spurred on his own, and Sherlock found himself raising his voice. "I'll have you know that John is worth twenty of you. Good or not; that man has become my life, whether you find that to your liking, I couldn't care less, quite frankly. Why, _why_ do you insist on taking away the only thing, the only person, I care for on this blasted planet?"

Sherlock discontinued his pacing and flared his nostrils, breathing heavily from his outburst. The only way through Mycroft's hardened exterior was to convince the man John's return would be in Sherlock's best interests. That was, after all, what Mycroft proclaimed to care most about.

"Sherlock…"

Mycroft's long suffering sigh rung out, and Sherlock felt the first tendrils of hope filtering through.

"Is this wise? Your obsession with John is… well, _unhealthy_ to say the least." Sherlock felt his heart sinking. Mycroft continued, "I can't help but feel your explosive personality may, in time, succumb to the monotony of a relationship and in turn you will seek more… addictive substances. John may be acting as your fix for the moment – but what will you do should he fail to meet your compulsion? You may be the one in need of him now, but he is broken, Sherlock. Inexplicably broken. He will need looking after, and what will happen when you find yourself no longer craving his company? When you drop him in search of cocaine, or your more usual vices? John isn't like us, you know – his feelings for you will remain. And when you break his heart, where will _he_ turn? To his alcoholic drunkard of a sister? To his mother? He has no one, Sherlock. No one but you."

His brother's speech caused the rare event of a brain-blank. Sherlock hesitated, mouth hanging ever so slightly open, on the verge of replying but unable to form the correct words.

His brother was, as ever was the case, right.

He had been so caught up in loving John it had never occurred to him that perhaps, just maybe, he had been using him all along as just another way of obtaining a fix. Not once when John was around had his mind strayed along the dangerous trails to linger on the solemn wooden box he had hidden in the deep recess of his wardrobe.

"Are you starting to understand me, brother?" Mycroft asked, snapping Sherlock back to the present.

Yes, John was like a drug to Sherlock – that much Sherlock would willingly accept. But there was something about the drawn out, solid, almost weighty feeling of happiness that John supplied him with that he knew would never fade.

Maybe, after a few years, he might not feel the same excitement when John spluttered out an awkward, "Would you like to go to bed with me?"

Maybe, it was possible that John's snoring, or his ridiculous jumpers would grate on the frayed ends of Sherlock's nerves due to long exposure to them.

But, John made him _happy; _a feeling that Sherlock was all but naïve to before he had met the man. That, he would have to fight for.

"John will be looked after, because I will look after him." Sherlock began slowly, his tone convincing and unwavering. "He will be happy, because I will make him happy. I will not allow him to suffer in the hands of Moriarty, just because you will not call up on this favour. He is not a fix to me, he is my boyfriend, and the sooner _you_ realise _that_ the sooner we can get down to saving him. Understood?"

In the silence that followed, Sherlock took up pacing again.

"Understood." Mycroft echoed distantly, and Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding in. It was always worth while to have Mycroft on hand.

"Oh, and Mycroft," Sherlock added, awkwardly. "I can't leave the flat, John was sent to assassinate me and I am currently posing as a corpse."

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock." Mycroft groaned. "Why did you refrain from mentioning that? We could have saved ourselves this argument. I'll be right over."

Sherlock felt distinctly smug as the sound of Mycroft ending the call rang out.

xxxxxxxx

"You're not being serious?" John choked, springing back, his jovial expression lost. The first monitor gave a low whine as it shut down.

Moran flared his nostrils, but the killer glint in his eyes dulled as an almost unnoticeable sly smirk wormed its way across his face.

"You fucker!" John yelled, throwing a punch at Moran's arm, "Christ, mate, I thought you were going to jump me!"

"Your _face!"_ Moran snorted and pulled back, a dirty laugh falling from his lips. "Oh man, I would pay to see that again, that was hilarious."

"Don't pull that shit," John shuddered, breathing in relief. Moran was scarily adept as an actor. "Jesus, you've been spending way too much time with Jim, you psycho."

"Psycho or not, you still fell for it." Moran grinned to reveal a set of neat teeth. "Absolute classic."

It never failed to surprise John just how much nicer Moran looked when he smiled. The man was handsome – of course he was – but when his lips spread into a grin, his scars fanned out and his face seemed less worn. He seemed more normal when he smiled, somehow.

"You need a new sense of humour, Moran." John huffed, glaring daggers at the blond hitman.

"I'm sure you'll find your way to get me one," Moran replied, his cheeky grin unfaltering. "'Cause you love me so much."

"Oh no," John rolled his eyes theatrically, voice monotone, "You've discovered my deep passion for you. How awful."

"Yeah, and don't you forget it." Moran laughed.

Just as the third and final monitor fizzed to a blank screen, the bell signalling all recruits were to return to their bunks trilled through the empty halls, clear and shrill to the ears.

Moran couldn't help but tease; "Looks like it's past your bedtime, kid."

"Past my bed time, and time you should be back licking Jim's arse." John countered, the two of them rising and heading for the door in tangent.

"Urgh," Moran sighed deeply, fumbling for the light, "Don't remind me."

"Oh don't worry, _I will_." John teased, his adorable smile lighting up his face. Moran found himself staring. Oh dear.

xxxxxx

Drip.

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale; Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.

Drip… Drip…

Sherlock's elongated fingers danced along his trusty revolver, glancing and deliberating between blowing his cover and perishing from boredom. Mycroft had arranged his arrival for twenty minutes from now. Twenty. Minutes.

Enough time to do something productive… or blast patterns into Mrs Hudson's walls.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Not long now.

xxxxxx

Moran caught John's wrist just before John exited the surveillance room, his hand large enough to secure its way around the entirety of John's.

"-What?" John turned, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Hey, let me-"

"John…" Moran's voice was low, lower than John had heard it before, and his eyes were wide, green irises glinting underneath thick eyelashes. It took John a second to realise just how close Moran was to him, their bodies an inch or so from touching.

"Yes, what?" John tried in vain to hold his voice steady, but Moran's truly earnest gaze was unsettling him.

"I…" Moran sighed, his voice heavy. "I know I was joking about it just now, but I think you're really great. I mean, _really_ great. I've not had a mate like you for a long time, and I appreciate that."

This was not good. John shook himself mentally.

"That's cool man, I think you're great too. I should probably go though, the bell's rung, and y'know how Jim is when-"

John cut off his babbling at the feeling of his wrist being drawn into Moran's body, pulling him in closer, pressing the length of John's chest against Moran's.

"No, no, you're not getting it." Moran snarled in irritation. "Ah, I had it all planned out – what I was going to say, how I was going to say it – and now you're looking at me with your god damn fucking puppy eyes and I can't think straight."

Twisting his wrist from side to side, John struggled not to shudder. "Moran. Let me go." He tugged his wrist back, harder this time, more forceful, but Moran's unyielding grip only fastened tighter. Moran peered down at him with blown pupils.

"You have no idea what you do to me." He purred, leaning in as if he was inhaling John's scent. "No idea at all."

No, this was wrong; this was all wrong! John wrenched himself away from Moran, face crumpled in confusion and rising disgust. Did Moran mean-?

"No, this isn't right, I-I'm sorry." John spluttered, a flush rising across his cheeks.

"John- John, mate," Moran's face became imploring and horribly open. It left John feeling lost and uncomfortable. "That came out all wrong, let me start again-"

"I think you've said enough…" John mumbled, his embarrassment only become more deep-seated.

"Please, just give me a chance," Moran conjured, full lips puckering slightly as he spoke. "I know you're still getting over Sherlock, and I respect that, but we could be _so good_ together. Can't you see that? I'd look after you. I'd treat you good, you know that I would."

"Look, Moran," John started, breathing deep for courage. "I- I'm flattered, really, but I'm honestly not up for a relationship right now." _With you. With anyone but Sherlock._ "You have to understand that."

"I do, I do," Moran pressed, stepping closer. John mimicked his step, and moved backwards, feeling his back hit the wall. Trapped. "But I want you, John, I want to be with you," He crept another inch forward, until John could feel Moran's heat radiating from his body. "I want you _now."_

"I really don't think-!" John managed to squeak out before an unfamiliar warm feeling pushed insistently at his lips. Moran was kissing him. "Moran-!" The press of Moran's lean, muscular frame had him pressed delicately against the wall of the surveillance room, his lips working and kissing at John's, trying to gain a response. As the wall dug and drilled into the all but fresh wounds of his back, John arched away, but in turn drew himself closer to Moran – who took this as an acceptance.

Moran's hands fell gently onto John's hips, squeezing them tenderly and renewing his attack on John's lips. No, _no,_ this shouldn't be happening… but… Fatigue set in. The familiar broken feeling Moriarty had helpfully provided him with. Why fight? Accept your fate. Accept it.

It was a shock to the both of them when John started to kiss back.

xxxxx

**A/N: Aha, bet you weren't expecting that! Fun fact. 'Liberty House' is a fictional place I'm basing on Liberty Hall in **_**She Stoops to Conquer **_**which I had the pleasure of watching at the National Theatre last Monday. It was brilliant, by the by, and I recommend you all to go see it.**


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft was precisely on time; not a second off if you went by the polished engraved silver of his pocket watch. But then, he did pride himself on the little things. He let himself in, prudishly wiping his feet on the welcome matt, before taking to the stairs. Out of breath more than he cared to mention, he knocked twice, awaiting Sherlock's approach.

How had his brother, exactly, gotten himself into such a mess? He had always been one for seeking out trouble, and if not – trouble certainly found him. He and John were made for each other.

He let out an impatient sigh when Sherlock failed to open the door to him.

"Sherlock, it's _me_." Mycroft tapped the point of his umbrella against the door once more. "If you expect me to stand outside your door for much longer, do think otherwise."

Suddenly, the sound of scuffling emitted from behind the door, and within the same second it was wrenched open, revealing a very different Sherlock to the one Mycroft had seen at the discovery of John's 'secret'. He stood tall, proud, dressed in what Mycroft knew, regrettably, was his combat gear.

By combat gear, Mycroft wasn't referring to camouflage and cleverly concealed weapons. Oh, no. This was an urban war they fought; they stood on concrete ground – bore the weapons of their minds on their sleeves. Having decided taking his impatience out on the wall was as trite as simply doing nothing, Sherlock had set his mind on a better impulse: planning. He stood dressed impeccably in a medley of blacks and browns. It wasn't ostentatious enough that he would stand apart from a crowd, but at the same time it was an outfit that excluded the air of someone who was ready to fight.

Ready to _win_.

He wore a round-neck black top, dark brown combat trousers, a black material jacket and chunky, high boots that were laced aridly half way up his shin. But most importantly, he wore the smirk of someone who was going to get his way.

Mycroft groaned internally.

"You're late." The younger Holmes turned away from the door, taking up position over the coffee table, which was coated in several layers thick of paperwork.

Knowing better than to rise to his brother's incorrigible statement, Mycroft stepped inside the flat and shut the door behind him. "I take it you've already culminated some idea of what you need me for, brother dear."

Sherlock's head jerked up from where he had been perusing his paperwork. "Of course."

"And…?" Mycroft pressed with a tilt of his head.

With a prolonged sigh, as if Mycroft should have deduced his entire strategy by now, Sherlock gestured to the sea of paper earnestly. Mycroft pulled his reading glasses from their case in his pocket and placed them meticulously on his nose, peering down.

As the writhing mass of lines focussed into words, Mycroft's heart sunk down past his knees.

"You want to storm Moriarty's headquarters?" A scoff, "Is that wise?"

Sherlock dropped the amused smile he had been wearing whilst examining his brother's glasses. "Obviously. John aside, Moriarty's recapture matters to you, surely? This man is intent on destroying the world simply because it bored him..."

"Now that sounds familiar," was supposed to be an internal remark, but it slipped past Mycroft's lips before he could stop himself. He cleared his throat pointedly. "So, what – you expect me to supply you with the men you need to pull of this stunt?"

Sherlock nodded, "Some guns wouldn't go amiss, I believe."

"Sherlock, you do realise I don't run the military aspects of this country's Government, don't you? I can hardly order twenty men from the Queen's Army on a whim."

"Pull in some favours," Sherlock growled, "Put the army on red alert – Mycroft, this is _Moriarty_ we are talking about here, not a puerile military display sent to retrieve a slice of cake for you."

Sherlock was playing a very dangerous game here, and Mycroft knew it. By taking the Moriarty angle, he was flaunting the idea that Mycroft actually cared for Moriarty's capture. Yes, the man was a menace, but he was hardly top priority. Wilf Hudson was wreaking havoc in America; _seventeen_ murders since his release were pushing the FBI to breaking point and yet _his_ capture was yet to happen. There was the mess in Afghanistan to deal with; the press had had a field day after the discovery of the death of three soldiers, and the capture of one after a futile documents transfer. Explanations of that debacle were yet to be released.

So many problems; so little time.

"And, anyway," Sherlock noted, "You said you'd help."

"You've become entirely nonsensical, brother – remind me never to fall in love as you have."

To this, Sherlock simply smiled. "Indeed. Now do shut up, Mycroft, and help me plan; we attack tomorrow."

xxxxxx

The next morning in the darkness, John perched on the edge of his bed, head hanging in his hands, wondering what the hell he had done.

He had… he had actually… Christ, he'd actually… gone and kissed Moran. Well… Moran had kissed him. But wording it differently made no impact on the reality of it all. It had still happened. He had still let it happen.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep, he slunk upwards from his bed, heading for the recruit's common room. It was 5:08am; it was doubtful any of the other recruits would be awake. With days filled with target practice, hand-on-hand combat and constant demeaning jibes, everyone fought for as much sleep as possible. If you lost sleep, you'd suffer the next day. That much was made known.

As John entered the common room, he realised he wasn't alone. Liam Jones was settled along the length of the settees, still in his training uniform. He looked up as John arrived, before returning his gaze to the telly.

"You alright, mate?" John asked, rubbing a tired hand over his face. The blond took rest on one of the armchairs, pulling his knees up to his chest.

The Irishman on the settee grunted noncommittally, "Tanner." he replied with simply.

John found himself pricking with annoyance. Tanner was one of the 'teachers' at Liberty House – known infamously for his inch thick skin and ability to bring a grown man to tears. Yesterday's lesson on long distance shooting had resolved in Jones being beaten by Tanner's curled fists after he failed to pick off all seven targets. Jones wasn't even at Liberty House for his shooting skills; the man was a tremendous hacker and had succeeded in bringing a whole plethora of banks to their knees. John eyed the ugly, purple bruise culminating over his companion's brow. The pain must be keeping him up.

"Don't listen to him, he's a prick." John checked over both his shoulders on impulse as he insulted a man exactly a foot taller than him. "An absolutely _colossal_ prick."

Jones chuckled at the conviction in John's voice. "Ah, Watson; you always know what to say to cheer a guy up."

"Comes with the territory," John laughed, causing Jones to shake his head, unable to keep from smiling.

His deep-pitched Irish accent became hushed. "You'd best be careful, Watson; if one of the other guys over hears you saying stuff like that you'll find the shit beaten outta you."

John shrugged, "Nothing I can't take." He mused for a few moments. "How's things with you and Healy?"

"Not bad, not bad," Jones scratched at his ginger hair absentmindedly, a fond look glazing his eyes. "We were supposed to be meeting tonight, but I can't help but think he's gone and forgotten."

Healy was the assassin Moriarty had imported over from Ireland, a dark-haired cheeky bastard whom Moriarty favoured highly. Rumour had succumbed to truth over the fact the man could out-shoot _Sebastian Moran_. Now that, John wished he could have seen. John was one of few to know of Healy and Jones' relationship – having completely by accident interrupted them mid-embrace whilst looking for his bedroom. Late at night was the only the two could spend time together, what with conflicting schedules and the raging homophobe that was Tanner.

As if on cue, a lanky, bright eyed assassin adorned with his trademark smirk made his way across the common room, making his presence known with a loud, cheery, "Did anyone miss me?"

This was met with a snarky, "Don't be daft," from Jones. "Your own mother wouldn't miss you if you up sticks and moved in with your dashing gay Irish lover."

Healy gave a roll of his azure irises, "Well, it's a good thing I haven't got myself one of those then, isn't it, Jones?"

Watching the two of them flirt effortlessly sent pains to John's chest – the intimacy of it all dredging up repressed thoughts of Sherlock and himself, but also the stark reality of it all. He had always seen criminals as little more than people behind bars and this was awakening him to the truth; they were indeed people, not printed names on newspapers.

Healy landed himself comfortably on the settee, Jones' head resting on his lap. The assassin wove his spindly hands into Jones' cropped hair, before noticing John's fixated gaze on the two of them.

"Would you like to join in, or somethin'?" He remarked, cocking a dark eyebrow. John shook himself and drew away his gaze.

"No thanks, threesomes aren't really my thing." Resting his chin on his drawn-up knees, he smiled gently. "And away, I'm taken."

"Awh, but Watson we could've been so good together." Jones crooned from Healy's lap. A look of comical scandal broke across Healy's face.

"Shut it you," The assassin bowed his head, folding in on himself to bring his face closer to Jones'.

"Make me," Jones' teased, arching his neck to bring their lips together.

John turned his head away bashfully, suddenly feeling very extremely like a third wheel. Putting on a show of looking tired, he yawned emphatically and got up to leave. Jones tore his lips back from Healy at the sound.

"Don't leave on our account," The Irishman was wearing an almost full blown blush.

"I'm not; I'm just tired, honestly." John lied, "I'll see you in the morning, Jones. Healy. Try not to make too much noise, yeah?"

Healy's smirk grew into a grin, "I'm not making any promises." He sniggered, causing the more withheld Jones to flush further with embarrassment. John couldn't help but shake his head.

The two recruits waved him off as he turned to leave, before asserting their attentions on each other.

Slowly, John returned to his room, his heart ever so slightly lighter. Jones was the bloke he had travelled up from London with, and it was warming to see him happy. If there was one thing he could say about the recruits at Liberty House, it was that he would easily name more than a quarter of them as his friends. Although he hadn't been their long – Moriarty's establishment was more like a community than a company; you got along with most people, had fun in your spare time even. It was… although he wouldn't say out loud – _nice_.

Laying back across his bed, John flung his arms up to cushion his head, and after a few heady moments, he fell fitfully to sleep; dreams filled with the sinewy lines of Sherlock's body crushed against his own…

xxxxxx

The formation of men finally came to halt from their prone positions amongst the grass, a collective hush falling upon them all.

They waited.

Dressed in black, layer upon layer against the harsh icy night, the group awaited their signal to advance. Liberty House stood illuminated a hundred yards from their location, tall and ominous – silhouetted against the ebony sky. The only noise amongst them was the sound of ragged breathing.

They waited.

Movement in the windows; a portrait passing across a window – a man preparing for bed. Perfect. Their advancement would be completely unpredicted. There would be resistance – of course there would – but nowhere near the amount needed to still the press of Mycroft's mass of soldiers.

Sherlock cocked his balaclava-ed to the side, intent on catching the Head of Operation's eye. He was impatient, itching to move. The man beside him caught the look and nodded silently. Ready.

Every muscle in the soldiers' bodies tensed, sensing the moment of attack nearing. Years of training culminated in this one moment. Guns were hitched higher in their grips. Set.

The man in charge gave a single, austere nod of his head.

_Go._

"Big Brother, this is Alpha Team– ready for lights out." The man hissed into his receiver, and in the same second the entire building foremost plunged into darkness.

That moment was all they needed.

"Go, go_, go_!" was roared, as the soldiers surged to their feet, boots pounding on the dirt before they began scaling the electric fence. They had fifteen seconds to climb and dispatch forward into the garden before the power returned, the fence re-electrified and the foreboding machine guns that adorned the walls of Liberty House were charged and aimed at them.

Thuds rung out as the bulk of men hit the ground, sprinting forward to take up their positions. By Sherlock's count there were sixty men advancing with him, twenty holding the fort behind the fence, and four that were currently at his flat clucking over the laptop he had used to break into Moriarty's computer system.

It hadn't been easy; Moriarty wasn't stupid – but at least he was methodical. He had based his entire computer network on a series of mazes. Dead ends and false leads furnished the mazes, questions from obscure TV shows popped up with the intention of misleading the hacker. Algorithms programmed by Jones himself were planted deep within the maze, and to add another level of danger to it all – if you took one turn in the maze, you were locked out completely.

But there was a solution to every problem.

_Moriarty is left handed, meaning he favours the left side – most of the turns are to the left then. The false leads were marked with the formula 'r0rr3'hidden within; error backwards. Obvious. The questions were from shows with confusing plot lines; shows that would hold Moriarty's interest for more than an episode. Dark humour; murder common occurrences would appeal to him. "Are you local? (Y)/(N)" reference: League of Gentlemen. Obviously. John's favourite show also (irrelevant) Answer: (Y). Left turn. Then the algorithms; password upon password. Those… Those were harder. Longitudes and Latitudes were required – the place of Moriarty's birth, his first kill; personal questions designed to hitch a fault. _But Sherlock worked through them all. He worked through _it_ all.

Lights up and the sound of uproar. Bullets ripped through the air as those who stood behind the fence covered those advancing, their guns rattling as round after round cascaded across the stone walls.

The fastest of the men began to reach Liberty House. They used the butts of their guns to smash windows, hauling themselves in. Calls of, "Nobody move!" and, "Put your hands on your head!" ricocheted through the night, barely audible against the background of gunshots.

Panting, Sherlock reached the house and brought the butt of his gun down on the glass of a window. He held his gun at an awkward angle and pulled himself through into an empty unfurnished room just as the flood lights outside illuminated the gardens. A heavier, more solid gunshot sound filled the air, and Sherlock felt his heart sink like stone.

The snipers were on the roof.

By now, a silent alarm was awakening every recruit in the house to the threat. Sherlock could hear above him the heavy patter of footsteps as the men struggled into their uniforms in the darkness. It was only by sheer force of will he didn't imagine John doing so.

Gun in hand; Sherlock stalked forward, eyes narrowed. John was most likely situated deep within the house; the newer recruits - being less experienced - would be no good on the outer shell in the event of an attack. The adjacent corridor was empty, almost eerie, and so he continued onwards, alone save for the noises that rung around him. He took a set of stairs upwards, moving with silent, swift movements.

Too late, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

Sherlock turned sharply in alarm, and felt a searing pain shooting on the back of his skull. He fell forward with a single yelp, scrambling forward as he did so.

Sebastian Moran stood over him, sneering evilly. He had his prey _exactly_ where he wanted it.

**xxxxxx**

**A/N: Sorry this took so long to write – I had problems with how to go about le aforementioned rescue. Please review and let me know what you think of it!**

**P.S. To "Guesswhofoundyourfanfiction" **_**I know who you are**_**. And let me tell you: If you continue reading I will **_**hug**_** you. I will **_**hug **_**the heart out of you. O_O**


	18. Chapter 18

Sherlock's palms slapped against the wooden flooring as he was struck again – Moran's boot connecting with the back of his skull. The force sent him flying forward, bright light exploding behind his eyes. As he sprawled, he scrambled to his feet, panting, using the momentum to gravitate himself upwards. Finding his footing, but still swaying dangerously, he twisted to eye his opponent.

Moran's skin was bleached pale under the light of the moon that cascaded through the window, an evil sneer carved across his face like a jagged scar.

"So you just thought you'd break in did you?" Moran stalked forward; a predator hunting his prey, "Who sent you? Tell me. Are you one of Morozov's men?"

For every step Moran advanced, Sherlock reciprocated backwards, maintaining an equal distance from him. Moran held no weapons, but he was just as dangerous unarmed than he was wielding a gun or a sword.

"Come on… you've gotta be here for a reason…"

Dodging another swipe of the sniper's fist, Sherlock ducked backwards. His gun was only a few metres behind him – it had fallen from his hands on the first hit – and he surreptitiously angled for it. But Moran noticed. In a rush of movement, Moran bent and pounced, his thick arms encircling Sherlock's waist and tackling him to the ground. Moran's weight combined with his own meant that as Sherlock's skull connected with the hard wooden flooring with a grunt, he all but passed out. Pain like lightning shot through him, and his vision blurred dangerously. A small trickle of blood wetted the back of his head.

Feeling his enemy slack beneath him, Moran straddled the body and fisted Sherlock's jacket in his hands, his breath stroking Sherlock's face with every exhale.

Moran lowered his face to Sherlock's, eyes menacing, burning.

"Now I'm only going to ask you this one more time. _Who. Sent. You_?"

Head lolling and eyelids drooped, Sherlock sucked in a breath before grinding his teeth together defiantly. Suddenly, he was very thankful for the ridiculous balaclava he wore that shrouded his identity. Should Moran recognise him, he would know his intentions on retrieving his illusive Watson and put an end to his plans. Most likely, if Moran found out – John would be taken into hiding, placed in a secluded outlet of Moriarty's power and kept within the company of Moran for the rest of his days. Which was the opposite of what Sherlock wished to gain from this.

Ignoring the sweet, horribly familiar scent that careened from Moran – a smell that only came when one has in close proximity to a certain John Watson – Sherlock held his tongue.

"Fine, if you're gunna be like that, I'm afraid you're no use to me..." Moran released a hand from Sherlock's jacket and instead refisted it into Sherlock's hair, wrenching his head backwards and tearing curls from their roots.

Frissons of pain alighted in Sherlock's mind, and finally everything focused. He needed to fight. He seized and flailed, trying to roll Moran from his body like a crocodile, but Moran's position was too seated- too strong. He'd have to try harder than that.

As Moran fumbled in his pocket for the serrated knife he knew was kept there, Sherlock put to use his well accumulated fighting knowledge. In his position, where strength would do nothing for him, he would have to use pressure points. And elbows. Because if there was one thing Sherlock had going for him, it was the undeniable hard points that were his elbows. For an impromptu plan, that would have to do. Clasping his hands together in a fist, he brought the concrete end of his right elbow with as much force as he could muster down on the soft, exposed area between Moran's legs that were spread wide over his torso.

Moran _squealed._

His hands came free of Sherlock's hair to clutch forsakenly at his groin, tears sparking in the lids of his eyes. Using the adrenaline that now coursed through his veins like fire, Sherlock fisted his hands again and brought his elbow around to connect with the space below Moran's ribs, forcing him to the side and sending him flying off of Sherlock.

The brunette panted with exhaustion, scrambling to his feet, before all but collapsing to the side in a yell of pain. His head seemed to swell and pulsate with every beat of his heart, and the inky coridoor swam in front of his eyes. It took him a few seconds to realise the world was devoid of sound. As the floor rushed up to meet him, Sherlock flung out his hands to cushion the fall; only succeeding in sending angry lines of pain up his arms. He hissed in frustration, not used to being so helpless. Everything seemed to slow.

A slow, single motion caught his eye – a figure sprinting past and dropping to the floor metres from him. The figure's momentum meant that he skid as his knees hit the floorboards. The figure made no sound as he landed by the inert, sprawled Moran, but Sherlock saw his mouth moving, words forming, sentences being said. Yet still, no sound. Nothing save the fluctuating palpitates of his skull, and the heavy throb of pain through his system was heard.

As the figure turned, his face disencumbering in the light of the moon, time sped up.

The first thing that alerted Sherlock to this was the shrill, even sound of a fire alarm – ringing through the halls brutally, filling his ears with its horrendous shriek. The second, was that the crouched figure was a very alert, very slim, very _distressed_ John Watson_. _

_John_.

John had caught Moran's arms in his grasp and was attempting to pull the sniper to his feet, his words distorted – drawn out – nonsensical, or so it appeared. Moran was replying, his voice tenor and husky with breath. Neither of them spotted the camouflaged Sherlock hidden in the shadows.

"-just get out while we can," John's tone sent horrid shivers of fear down Sherlock's spine. His John was brave, that much was obvious, but the way he had fallen so effortlessly into soldier-mode meant that something was up; something was wrong. "The entire Fourth Wing is up in flames, there's nothing left; we need to _go_-"

"Whhh-" Moran shook his head to clear it. "Where is he? The fucker that beat me up, where the fuck is he?"

"Woh, woh, mate, calm down; there's no one here. _Hurry_, Seb, we have to get everyone out before the fire spreads-"

Moran was nodding nonsensically, biting his lip and using John as a frame to drag himself vertical. Fiery jealousy burned in Sherlock's mind as he watched John's caring nature take hold and wrap his arms around Moran's waist to keep him upright.

"-not to forget there are sixty or something armed men storming the building," John snorted as he continued, unamused, "As if the raging inferno wasn't enough. All my stuff's been burnt."

"Good," Moran was testing the waters, taking little steps and wincing at the heavy pressure between his legs, "It's about time those disgusting pants of yours went up in flames."

Through the darkness, Sherlock heard the delightful trills of John's laughter, "Oi, fuck off. The amount of times I've seen you staring at my arse, I'd have thought you liked them."

A small grunt sounded as Moran backhanded John in the stomach, "Shut up and help me out of here before I punch you in that pretty ass."

"Always so threatening," John murmured as he led Moran to the left of Sherlock down the corridor. "How do you expect to have any friends?"

They reached the end of the coridoor, Moran scoffed. "I've got you, haven't I?" He smirked, leaning heavily into John's body. Sherlock's fists coiled impulsively. He should have aimed for Moran's face instead and wiped that smirk clean off.

As the pair rounded the corner, Sherlock crawled to his feet – small, breathy gasps of pain escaping his lips. At least now he had confirmation of John's safety; as much as it irritated him to think so, Moran wouldn't let John come to harm. Now he could clear his mind and concentrate on his first goal. The real reason behind this all.

To retrieve John's father. John Watson Senior.

And if his new hypothesis was correct, it would be easier than he hoped.

xxxxxx

With Moran outside, John instantly rushed back in. Military training ran deep, and although many of the recruits were opting for the, "save yourself," tactic, John was exempt from that. If he didn't return into the building and he later found out a man had perished inside – he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. As a doctor, a soldier, and a damn good person, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself.

And so he ran.

Ignoring Moran's calls, he shrugged off his military coat and flung it over his head to shield him from the flames licking at the walls around him.

He followed the maze of corridors towards the Fourth Wing where the fire had originated. With the intent of flushing out Moriarty from the safe depths of Liberty House's confides Mycroft's men had started a controlled fire just outside of the Fourth Wing. They had hoped that with a call of 'fire', Moriarty's lizard instincts would kick in, and he would flee to safety. What they hadn't predicted, however, was the strong winds that would catch the sparks and draw them into the homely shelter of Liberty Hall and become the beginnings of an immense blaze.

With none of the enemy soldiers in sight, John continued, every now and then meeting his friends whom travelled in the opposite direction; fleeing the fire, instead of heading for it. It took John a few seconds to register the sounds of agonised shrieks over the combined roar of flames and creaking wood.

"_SOMEONE HELP_!" A voice was screaming, "_PLEASE!_"

Blood running cold despite the heat, John threw himself through an adjacent door, using his shoulder to bring it open. As the door flew open, he recoiled as a cloud of burning smoke assaulted his face. Tears smarted his eyes, and he hacked a rough cough. Trying again with his heart firmly in his throat, he entered the room.

The entire ceiling of the common room had collapsed inwards, rubble from the wreckage scattered across the room. Flames that verged on white scattered across the edges of the room burned ever inwards and upwards and smoke in thick curls swathed the walls. A large, charcoaled wooden beam ran from one end of the room to the other, its ends riddled with fire.

And then there was the source of the screams.

Jones was trapped, writhing in agony under the beam that had fallen and crushed his thigh into the boards below. His pale face was twisted and crumpled in pain as he tried fitfully to lift the beam from himself. Healy was next to him, as always was the case, both arms surrounding the beam, red faced with exertion and heat as he too tried to pull the beam from Jones' leg. But he wasn't build for that; the man was a sniper, not a weight lifter.

"John!" Healy looked as if he was about to burst into tears in relief, "Thank fuck you're here; you've got to help us-" His voice was drowned by the sound of creaking wood, the floor threatening to buckle under the duress. They had hardly any time before the floorboards would give way, and they would all be plunged two stories downwards into the flames. Terror alighted in Healy's eyes.

"Please, we've got to help him," Healy released the beam to clutch at John's arms in desperation, dragging him forward. Never before had he seen a man so terrified. "I can't leave him, _please_. I love him."

"Then let me help."

John pulled himself from Healy's arms and bolted forwards, surveying the beam methodically. If it was too heavy to lift, he would need a counterbalance of some sort.

He turned to one side, eyes roaming the wreck of a room. He would need some sort of wood or metal to slide under the beam and lift it free of Jones' leg. Bending, he gripped a thick plank of what had been flooring and dragged if forward. It took a few moments for Healy to catch on – his attentions narrowed to Jones and Jones alone; placing kisses on the man's head tenderly and telling him it would be all alright – but as he saw John's actions, his eyes brightened. Leaving his lover with a final affectionate kiss to the forehead, he assisted John in positioning the plank under a gnarled edge of the beam that rose ever so slightly from the ground.

With that done, John – tears running freely down his reddened face from the smoke – gripped the end of the plank that stuck from underneath the beam.

"When I lift it," He growled over the roar of fire to Healy, who was coughing obscenely, "pull Jones out and _run_, got that?"

Healy collapsed forward, nodding his understanding, his movements become laboured. Falling to his knees, he scooted up to Jones as close as he could, before immersing the little Irishman in his arms gently. Jones' bottom lip was protruding and shaking as he held back his little sobs of agony. Trying to be brave. Healy resumed his murmurings rocking the tiny body of his sweetheart in his arms. _It's OK, _he was saying, _I love you, it's OK. _

Planting both his hands on the plank that heated in his grip, John forced it downwards and in return, the beam rose upwards.

Jones screeched, hands clawing at Healy's forearms as a cloud of ash was blown up in the movement and settled in the open, bleeding flesh wound that was his thigh. In the same instant, when his thigh was clear, Healy was pulling with all his might, face screwing in concentration. Nothing would stop him getting Jones to safety, not now.

As soon as Jones was free from underneath the beam, Healy gathered the man further into his arms, his sobs softening and becoming smothered in Jones' ridiculously big jumper.

"Let's get you out of here, you stupid git," Healy all but whimpered, climbing off his knees to his feet. The floor groaned dangerously, small shivers of cracks scorching along its entirety.

When he reached the door, Healy turned, searching for John amongst the smoke. "John!" He roared, "Come on, let's go!"

A vague shape in the billowing smoke shimmered. "Just a- just a sec!" John bellowed back, barely audible and choking, "I need to put the beam down!"

The floor shuddered violently once more as John shifted the weight. Suddenly, Healy was aware of a much more imminent danger.

"JOHN, _NO!_"

Healy could do nothing but watch as John released the beam, sending it cascading through the weakened floorboards and into the fire that carpeted the first and second floors. The floor splinted and roared as it continued to break, fragile under the fire's relentless attack.

John looked up once, horrified panic clear in his wide, blue eyes, before the floor gave way to his weight, and he was sent downwards into the flames.


	19. Chapter 19

In the opposite end of Liberty House, Sherlock swiftly rounded a corner, only to find himself face to face with a startlingly familiar looking face. It stunned him momentarily, and he stumbled to a halt, finding his eyes roaming the face in front of him with eager eyes. The man mirrored the action, impeding his sprint to exit the building, and instead sizing up the intruder he faced.

_Oh_, but of course.

"John Watson _Senior_." Sherlock voiced into the hollow corridor. In the distance, the roar of flames succumbs to the sound of splintering wood.

The man's flinch was almost unperceivable. Standing proud, he was dressed in combat trousers and a white top which held the Moriarty insignia, lit by a single bulb that hung forlorn from the coridoor ceiling. He stood but three metres from Sherlock, rolling onto the balls of his feet in an act that could be seen as nervous, but Sherlock knew otherwise.

The man was deciding whether or not to attack.

"I'm sorry"? The man snarled, wary now. His hands became balls at his sides.

In quick succession, Sherlock rattled off, "Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists - you've been abroad but not sunbathing. Just then you were nursing your hand, but you've curled it into a fist now, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq."

Eyes widening, the elder Watson glared, his military training that had long been burnt into him screaming at him to take down the intruder… and yet he couldn't. Not yet.

Nerves gave way to amazement, "How do you know my _name _from that?" He asked.

"Your tattoo, clearly visible at the wrist says 'John and Harriet'. It's not a romantic attachment, you don't wear a wedding ring, and haven't for a long time if the lack of whitened skin around your ring finger is anything to go by, but you haven't made any attempt to remove the tattoo so it has lasting value. Now, Harriet – who's Harriet? Not your wife – this is something for the younger generation. Could be a cousin, but as you're a war hero who works for Moriarty it's unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so daughter it is. You've got your daughter's name tattooed to your wrist - that says you have close ties with her, or at least you did. I think it's safe to assume the 'John' is your son, instead of you referring to yourself." John Senior did nothing to hamper the wince that arose at his son's name. "And then there's your marksmanship."

John broke from his amazing revere to choke out a, "How could you… _possibly_ know about my marksmanship?"

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though." Sherlock couldn't resist a delighted grin. "Your hands are callused, quite badly I'm afraid. You train with a gun then, but not just once, over a long period of time, longer than your time in the army, so you do it in your spare time then. A hobby. But you don't have lasting powder stains on your fingers, so you're good at what you do. Simple. You're a war veteran with good marksmanship who has a son named John… I've read enough newspapers to know who that makes you."

Throughout Sherlock's speech, John Senior had been shaking his head, stunned into silence. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, his mind still processing the mass of information.

"Oh, fuck off," John chuckled despite himself, still half caught in his amazement, he checked over both his shoulders. They remained alone in the coridoor. "Alright, _Derren Brown,_ who _are_ you?" The man finally asked, his voice hushed – holding a slight tone of reverence. His kind blue eyes – so like his son's – caught Sherlock's in an unyielding gaze.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," The detective informed with a certain air of pride, "Your son's boyfriend."

xxxxxx

As another intruder fell before him, Moran leered horribly, snapping the soldier's arm back in on it's self in an explosion of bone and blood. The man screeched, lashing out to drive a blow into Moran's shin, but the sniper was quicker. He thrashed and kicked the soldier in the side, and again, and again. Yes, he had a gun – brandished at his side like a trophy – but he did so love to feel his victim's life drain from their pathetic bodies. Soon, the man's feeble yells grew silent.

Perfect.

Turning away from the slack body, Moran surveyed the grounds of Liberty House in the light of the impeding dawn. A tactical retreat was being called; the soldiers whom had attacked now scurrying from the gardens and through the hole they had now blown through the electric fence. Bodies littered the space between fence and house – still and unmoving. Not many a man alive remained inside the grounds, most already fled or taken by the intruders.

How could everything have gone wrong so fast?

Moran snarled to himself, eyes flaring in his anger. Moriarty would not be terribly pleased to know the foremost of his recruitment centres was currently consuming itself in flames, alight like a warning beacon against the night sky. Nor would he be pleased with the number of recruits now captured, presently handcuffed and forced against their will into police vans that would ensure their permanent jail sentences.

Formulating a plan in his mind, Moran took the path around Liberty House. He would find John and then together they would escape. Ah, John. Moran gave into the parsimonious urge to grin joyfully as he remembered his own advances the other night – how he had crushed young Watson's slim, delicious frame against his own and traced the line of his lips with his tongue. But there would be plenty more times to do that, certainly after their escape, when he would request Moriarty to allow John as his understudy. Then, John would never leave his side. John would never _want_ to leave his side.

Moran smiled into the darkness, breaching Liberty House and entering the Second Wing where the older recruits were housed. The Second Wing was yet to succumb to the flames, and so he infiltrated it smoothly, without fault.

He stalked through the corridors mutely, his soft soles making no impact on the wood of the floors. But, then… Voices. He could hear voices, not far from where he stood – their words unhidden by the cacophony of fragmenting building.

"You mean he's _here_?" A rough voice was questioning. He sounded broken. "My son is here?"

"Yes, which is why I need your help."

"I can't see how I can-"

"Moriarty is using John as leverage to make him his slave; as long as you are in Moriarty's power, John is also. I have contacts who can free you from Moriarty's endowment. You just need to come with me."

"I see." The first voice shuddered out a deflated, "Fucking hell…"

A beat of silence.

"So, will you come?"

"Of course I will, you stupid bastard, this is my son we're talking about here. I'm just wondering how the hell my son's wound up with _you _as his boyfriend-"

And all of a sudden Moran knew exactly who that second voice was. Anger and surprise burning vehemently inside his chest, Moran forwent protocol and in quick succession flipped the gun from his belt, held it out at arm's length and turned the corner, putting him at the other end of the corridor to the infuriating man that was supposed to be dead.

_Of course he's not dead,_ a harsh whisper chasted, _John lied to you._

Sherlock Holmes was still alive. Still! Moran would have to correct that, of course.

"-didn't even know he was gay." The first voice finished. Moran could see now it was Captain Watson who spoke, the older man running a hand through his greying hair. "How did I miss that?"

"Hm. Because he's a lying bastard…?" Moran offered, stepping from the shadows and immersing himself in the light of the near-dawn. He enjoyed it immensely as both Sherlock and Captain Watson swivelled to see him with identical looks of shock. How he would enjoy their faces submerged in their own crimson blood.

Watson was the first to speak, "Stand down, Moran." He ordered cautiously, hands twitching to reach for the gun hooked across his belt.

"I'll stand down when Holmes here is dead at my feet." Moran snarled.

Distantly, he remembered his previous comradeship with the detective, offering help to insure John's rescue. But now that was all but a bad memory. That was before he wanted John for himself. John was his now; his pet, his own and Sherlock was simply a spare part made eliminated. With John in Moriarty's power, he could keep John for himself – so why should he aid in his recovery?

"I said, _stand down_." Watson barked, voice ringing across the empty corridor, unnerved by the hollow, dead look Moran's eyes held. He tore his own handgun from his belt and held it aloft. Watson's eyes blazed. "Don't make me choose between my son's safety and you, Moran, because let me tell you this. You. Will. Not. Win."

Moran hissed. Captain Watson was blocking Holmes; making a clear shot all but impossible. "Your son is safe with _us_, not with this prick," Moran argued, shifting from side to side as he tried to glean a way past the Captain. "I can't believe this!"

"Well, believe it." Watson spat.

Tired now of entertaining Moran, he lowered his gun and, without even pausing to think it through, fired a solid shot to Moran's knee. The bullet hit home – shattering Moran's kneecap and bending his leg inwards, so his knee went back on itself grotesquely.

Squealing in agony, Moran fell, blood spurting from his wound, and collided with the ground with a heavy _thud. _His gun skitted away from him.

"Let's just go," The elder Watson murmured to Sherlock, who was gaping incessantly behind him. John grimaced at the sight of Moran writhing in a pool of his own blood. He may have been a military man, but he wasn't a monster, and it saddened him that it had come to his; split blood and tears on cheeks.

Distancing himself, he grasped Sherlock's forearm in a comforting gesture, "We should find John first. Radio your men and let them know I'm on your side, I don't want my arse shot at the last hurdle."

Sherlock nodded distantly, his mind busy cataloguing John's mannerisms and comparing them to that of his son's. It was fascinating, and he couldn't help but hold high regards for them both. John's dad was a _good man, _and with his son's help, Sherlock believed he could become a great one.

"You know where you'll find your little cock sucker John, don't yoooou?" A garbled voice giggled horrifically, Moran was delusional in pain. He glared at the two men with empty eyes that were long dead. "Bouncing that pretty ass of his up and down on my-"

An ear-shattering second gunshot ricocheted through the air, this time finding place in the deep recesses of Moran's skull. The sniper was forced backwards by the force of the bullet, head connecting with the floor with a sickening crack. His dead eyes remained unblinking, fixating the ceiling with his stare. Blood in thick rivulets cascaded from his skull.

"No one speaks about my son like that." Watson said simply, as if answering an unsaid question. He refastened his gun onto his belt, face solemn and set. Sherlock regarded him silently as he did so, new respect for the older man forming and growing in his mind.

Before he could speak, Sherlock's walkie-talkie crackled and hissed, a distorted voice ringing out from it. "_Sherlock, this is Alpha Team One, we have Watson in our possession; return to Base, over."_

Nothing could stop the smile of jubilation smothering Sherlock's face, until the tops of his cheeks appeared in his vision.

"I guess we should go then." Watson grinned, his boyish eyes lighting up.

Sherlock held the walkie-talkie to his lips, "Alpha Team One, this is Sherlock. Retreating now, over." He replaced the device and turned to face Watson, the smile on his face near ridiculous.

"_Just to warn you, Sherlock,"_ The radio crackled, "_He isn't in the best of shape; you might wanna get here fast, over."_

The walkie talkie hit the floor and smashed. Neither Sherlock nor John knew who starting running first.

xxxxxx

John lay on the crisp sheets of the stretcher, rattling out horrid little breaths that burned their way to and from his throat viciously. The plastic of the oxygen mask dug into his face, providing a welcome sense of discomfort from the numbness that held his entire body in its lucid grip. Morphine, the ambulance crew had informed him, for his burns.

Burns? He remembered thinking, what burns? He'd struggled weakly, trying desperately to ask how Jones was only to be forced back onto the stretcher. Jones was fine, they said. Now rest.

Rest.

How could he rest? The entire building had been burning down around him, a torrent of wood and sparks, when he'd dragged himself out. He had landed well, rolled, but then speared his head on a white hot rod of metal which lay sticking from the ground obscenely. When the spasms of pain subsided, he'd found himself outside – the entire side of Liberty House had fallen away, leaving him free to call for help, voice cracking with his ragged gasps of pain. And boy, did he need help. The skin of his back was mottled and charred; one ambulance crew member had placed his hand on John's back to help him up, only to pull away and find John's skin still attached to his fingers. The stitches that had held his whip-wounds together were burnt away, leaving his wounds sore, open and weeping.

John found himself chuckling with near hysteria at how awful he probably looked. If the looks the doctor's were giving him were anything to go by, he was not a pretty sight. He comforted himself with the fact Sherlock wouldn't see him as such.

Except…

Through the ringing and mist in his head, the dulcet tones of his lover's voice were seeping through, calling him, begging him. _Crying for him._

John's heart tightened dangerously in his chest and for a moment the words, "heart attack" flashed hazardously in front of his eyes. No, no, why was Sherlock crying? The haze that covered his eyes cleared in a jolt, and he was met with the sigh of his sweetheart in tears above him.

Oh, but it was worth a wound; it was worth many wounds to know the depth of loyalty and love which laid behind that once cold mask. The clear, hard eyes of his lover were dimmed, and his full, firm lips were shaking. Therein, John caught a glimpse of a great heart as well as of a great brain, and in that moment he knew that there would never be anyone else for him.

Because he loved him.

"You big dope," John managed to croak, breath harsh and echoing against the oxygen mask, "What are you crying for?"

Sherlock chuckled minutely as he sobbed, his shoulders rolling and shaking. Bending, he pressed the softest of kisses on John's forehead, muttering against it. "I am crying at just how immensely stupid you are, John."

"O-OK, that makes sense." The army doctor slurred, heart thrumming in his chest at the affectionate gesture. "…Remind me again why I'm stupid?"

His grey eyes rimmed with red, Sherlock peered down at John with a condescending a look as he could muster in his current position.

"Because yet again, you fail to see just how deep my feelings for you lie," He informed, combing John's sandy fringe from his eyes, "If you did, you would refrain from hurting yourself quite so much."

"Hurting myself?" John echoed incredulously, an aching bark of laughter falling from his lips. "It wasn't _my_ fault the floor caved in, Sherlock."

"Nonetheless, I expect you in top form for my next case." Sherlock continued, undeterred; a soft smile formed at the thought. "_Our_ next case."

"Oh God. You and your bloody cases," John choked out, an eyebrow raised. "Anyone would think you were married to your work or something."

"Shut up and sleep." The detective scolded, but the gentle smile remained.

The ambulance crew soon started the engine, and Sherlock slipped his hand into John's. When John was well, he would tell him about his dad, and how he was now free from Moriarty's power. When he was well, Sherlock would tell John he loved him.

But for now, he was perfectly content with the rise and fall of John's chest and the smile that lit up his eyes. For now, everything was perfect. Just like his John.

**xxxxxx**

**A/N: I think that's it, actually apart from the epilogue. Hurray! Would you guys like one more chapter before the epilogue or would that just drag it out more? Thank you for all the reviews by the way, the amount I love you guys is indescribable, and of course - thank you for reading!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: A thousand apologies for the late-ness of this chapter and a **_**huge**_** thank you to Lauren (AKA: Guesswhofoundyourfanfiction) for the help. You are endlessly sexy and amazing. West siiiide, bruv. **

xxxxxx

In the buzz of activity and the writhing of doctors forcing their way forward with their intents set on John, Sherlock migrated backwards much against his own will. Hands guided him towards the hard plastic of the generic hospital chairs, words of encouragement were whispered –reassurances. None of it was registered. The thrum of movement like a blur to his eyes, Sherlock wrung his hands and twitched in his impatience. He wanted, no – _needed_ to know the damage John had accumulated. That was his top priority, above all else. Just the mere knowing that John was injured clouded his thoughts and sent logic into disarray. He knew, distantly, that he should be on his mobile to Mycroft, whom had sent him a text regarding Moriarty's position (Mycroft stated he had agents who had tracked consulting criminal down to South America).

Hours wheedled by.

John Watson Senior was in Mycroft's custody being interrogated. Sherlock was almost pleased – he didn't want to overwhelm John when he was still recovering. There was still so much he had to tell him, including the explanation that he was free from Moriarty's power – but also the fact most of his colleagues were now, it would seem, imprisoned or in questioning. Mycroft planned to acquire the locations of Moriarty's organisations in order to take them out one by one – a plan he had all but embezzled off Sherlock. Not that Sherlock wouldn't be helping, oh no. As soon as John was well enough, Sherlock plotted to have them both straight off to America. That way, with John rightfully by his side, they could take down Moriarty, and Sherlock pondered – Wilf Hudson while they were at it. Now that would be the perfect case to take up as their first case together. One for John to write down in his diary where he would appropriately gush over Sherlock's deductions, as he always did. Sherlock smiled to himself. John always saw the good in him.

"Mr Holmes?"

Head jerking up, Sherlock regarded the nurse in front of him. "Yes?"

"Mr Watson is out of surgery now," The nurse explained, "You can come and sit with him if you'd like to follow me…?"

Sherlock leapt to his feet in an instant, his expression stern. The nurse turned, and Sherlock swiftly followed. They made their way towards the Burns Ward, weaving in and out of the mass of activity.

"How are his injuries?"

"The surgeons used skin grafts on his back." The nurse rattled off clinically, "It's too early to know if its taken or not, but there is no sign of infection. His head wound is healing nicely - it was a clean cut. All in all, he's likely to make a good recovery. Mr Watson is a lucky man."

Sherlock breathed out a sigh of relief, and after hours of pain-filled waiting, his heart began to beat normally; John was going to be OK.

The nurse led him up a single flight of stairs and towards the private wards. The clock on the wall read 1pm. Sherlock did the calculations in his head. The invasion on Liberty House was initiated at 6am, and had lasted a full three hours, meaning they had been residing in the hospital since nine. Four hours of waiting. And now_, finally, _he was to able see John again.

As the door was pointed out, Sherlock made his way inside John's room, before taking a step back in shock, his back colliding against the doorframe.

Oh, John.

The little army doctor looked so small, insignificant even - curled in on himself as he was and blanketed in layer after layer of flimsy covers. A thick bandage swathed John's skull, providing him with a white cap. His cheeks and neck were flushed, his wrist containing countless tubes, all foreboding with plastic attachments. Sherlock knew the worst of his wounds were away from sight, hidden from his eye. He was almost thankful. There was not a hope he would be able to see John as he had before and not loose himself to tears once more.

But what made all the difference to Sherlock was that for the first time, in his eyes… John seemed so _vulnerable_. Breakable. Fragile.

Ignoring the hollow sensation inside his chest, Sherlock took up the hospital chair by the soldier, and smothered John's hand with his own spindly digits. The sight allowed him something for his gaze to fall upon other than the drawn, pale face of his injured boyfriend. The juxtaposition of Sherlock's pale, elegant fingers against John's tanner, blunter ones was pleasing and familiar. For the shortest of moments, the sight of two identical rings displayed on their fingers flashed like lighting through his mind, before dispersing amongst the cacophony of auxiliary thoughts.

A hand smoothed over his shoulder. Comforting, almost. A warm weight. The voice was distantly recognisable.

"Mr Holmes? I'm afraid your brother needs to see you."

xxxxxx

It was three weeks before John could even consider removing himself from his bed. He complained _furiously_, of course he did; despite his medical training it would seem being beside Sherlock and companioning his boyfriend in the retrieval of Moriarty was put above his own health. Then again, Sherlock would continuously muse, in John's mind everything took precedence except his own well being. The man's heart was truly too big for his own good.

For the duration of those weeks, Sherlock didn't visit. This was against his will and was met with fiery temperament. Mycroft required Sherlock's "_amour de la chasse"_ (love of the chase) as he would so fondly joke to aid him in tracking down the fleeing criminal Moriarty and bringing him to justice.

It was only within the deep recesses of Mycroft's mind would he admit the depth of admiration he so sorely kept for the detective and his work. Mycroft would never did inform his little brother of that compulsion, nor did he ever plan to. As Mycroft was so frequently reminded – Sherlock's ego was stroked enough without him adding his praises. But Sherlock worked on, regardless of whether or not Mycroft's approval extended his way; blind, in fact, to any emotion his brother would fleetingly show. He cared only for the hunt, the chase, the facts, and then the thought of being reunited with John once his work was done.

John, his dull hours broken by hospital meals and infrequent calls from Harry, spent most of his time supplying text after text to Sherlock's mobile, not always expecting answers and savouring those that filtered through.

1:33am, [I'm bored. The hospital is quiet at night. Especially when you're not here. –JW]

1:34am, [But then any room with you in is really hard to mistake for an empty room. –JW]

1:35am, [I miss you. –JW]

2:01am, [I've been thinking. -JW]

2:01am, [You, chasing after another man day and night. I should be jealous. –JW]

2:02am, [You really shouldn't. –SH]

2:02am, [Hello! I was joking, you big dope. I didn't expect you to text back. –JW]

2:04am, [I happen to have some time off. You'd love South America. I'll have to bring you here when you are well. –SH]

2:05am, [What, so you can see me with my top off? –JW]

2:05am, [Oh, undoubtedly. –SH]

Small moments of digital banter between them left John glowing for hours after, a grin fixated on his worn features, eyes bright with adoration and delight. It was the little things, he told himself.

The skin of John's back was healing nicely, or so the doctor's informed him. His nurses were lovely, treating him like a human being and responding with vigour when he questioned them. Sherlock held the opinion John was constantly unleashing his so called, "deadly charm" upon them, and that John should cease his niceties before he had to fly back and fight off the lustful nurses in their droves with the sharpest object to hand. John had laughed at that one. Sherlock hadn't been joking.

10:56pm, [John, are you awake? –SH]

10:56pm, [No. –JW]

10:58pm, [Once again, your wit astounds me. –SH]

10:59pm, [Ha. Thank you, love. How are you? –JW]

11:02pm, [Bored. We traced Moriarty to an isolation unit in Moscow but it was a false lead. Again. –SH]

11:02pm, [He's a sneaky bastard; you have to give him that. So you're what – a four hour flight away? – JW]

11:03pm, [Approximately. –SH]

11:06pm, [Ha, this is the closest you've been to me since you left. When will you back in London? I miss you. –JW]

11:07pm, [1559 miles is hardly considered close, John. –SH]

11:07pm, [How's this: please come back so I can punch you in the face. –JW]

11:09pm, [What a lovely incentive. –SH]

11:10pm, [Come back, and I'll make it one. –JW]

11:10pm, [I miss you too, by the way. Most ardently. –SH]

11:11pm, [I've got to sleep; the nurses are badgering me. I'll text you in the morning. I love you. And stay safe. –JW]

11:14pm, [I will. Good night, my love. –SH]

Sherlock, on the other hand was thoroughly enjoying himself. Finally, he was having the chance to do what he did best in new and thrilling countries; he could express his thirst for knowledge in the language of others and traverse the mounds of information he could ingest from the natives. His brain was alight and buzzing and firing on all cylinders.

Finding Moriarty was not going to be easy – that much Sherlock knew undoubtedly. But there did lie the challenge. Moriarty was smart, devilishly so, but Sherlock and his team were constantly one step ahead. Moriarty was using the alias, "Richard Brook" to elude his pursuers, but the Irishman had the fatal flaw of being overconfident. His overconfidence being he relied on the fact he believed Sherlock to be slower than him; to falter and to stumble. His trail was _sloppy_, not that Sherlock was objecting. Although, it had to be said that he was hoping for a more challenging chase. But still, the sooner Moriarty was captured, the sooner John would be safe. And what an incentive that was.

Mycroft visited John on a regular basis, often to bring him baked goods, but more often than not just to chat animatedly. The elder Holmes was different, John noted, away from the stress of his work. With the trap closing on Moriarty, Mycroft had the indulgence of relaxing, just slightly. And John, he found, was good company. They often conversed for hours, Mycroft aside John's bed, umbrella hooked punctiliously in the crease of his elbow. Sometimes Sherlock would pop up as a subject of interest, some times not. They discussed their joint admiration for the bakery shop two roads from Baker Street, the news, books, and in true British etiquette – the weather. There was many a subject that was left untouched; John's time with Moriarty, his father, his "betrayal" of Sherlock. But Mycroft found himself avoiding them purely out of a sense of friendship; he had no intention of upsetting John whilst he was in so fragile a state. Sometimes, when Mycroft was in one of his lighter moods, tales of his and Sherlock's childhood would arise and John would spend the next hour or bent double, his eyes creased with delight as Mycroft recalled the times when a toddler Sherlock would smear himself in mash potato. John had later received photo evidence of the event.

One night, two months after the storm on Liberty House and many hours after Mycroft had left John to sleep with a gallant farewell, John was up late, enraptured in a book when an obscured text alert sounded from under his pillow. Drawing out his phone, he held it up and opened the text.

His grin was enough to light up cities.

1:43am, [I'm coming home, John. -SH]

xxxxxx

"OK, you've got questions."

John grinned delightedly, "Yeah, where are we going?"

"The Diogenes. Next."

"Is Mycroft is hunting Moriarty now?"

Sherlock almost surcame to laughter at such a notion, "_Mycroft_ isn't, John, some of his agents are. To think that Mycroft would ever leave the comfort of his own armchair to track down a criminal in South America is frankly absurd."

John attempted a scowl, but a smile played around the corners of his mouth, "You know what I meant."

The government car they sat amid hit a pothole and John was thrown forward slightly. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth as his tender back came into contact with a bump in the leather seat and growled, frustrated. Sherlock frowned in annoyance. Knowing John was in pain when he could do nothing was truly aggravating him.

Sherlock looked… different. Older somehow, despite only being away for just over a month. He looked tired, deeply so; his eyes a tad wiser. Skinnier, if that were possible. Worn down.

To distract himself, John continued his questioning. "Did Moran get away?"

Sherlock's heart lurched like a caged bird around his ribcage. He found himself avoiding John's eye. "No."

"Oh." John looked taken aback, his eyes shooting open. "Is he with Mycroft then?"

Again, Sherlock's heart gave a painful squeeze. "No, he… " Was there tactful way to go about this? "He was shot."

John froze, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Slowly, he inched his head to the side. All the colour had drained from his face. He looked horrified. "_What_? By who?"

The ragged breathing emitting from between John's lips was the only sound. Sherlock continued to chew dejectedly at the side of his mouth, rolling the answer around on his tongue. Well. Best get it over with.

"Your father."

Heavy silence.

The sleek government car pulled up parallel to a large, grand building that almost seemed to lean out over the pavement. Sherlock hauled himself out then turned to offer his hand to the stunned John, and helping him out also. The blond hissed and breathed through the pain, before straightening. He seemed almost lost in his mind, playing their conversation over and over as if it would have a different outcome if he continued to do so, face empty of emotion.

Sherlock waved off the driver, before retaking John's hand and leading him inside the Diogenes Club. John continued to say nothing, his eyes glazed and distant.

A smartly-dressed servant, whom recognised Sherlock in an instant almost fell over his feet to bow respectively, gestured them to follow him through the winding corridors. It would seem they were expected. As the trio approached a heavy, ornate oak door, the servant rushed ahead to hold it open to the couple, whom swept past. John had the mind to give the servant a small smile of thanks. He'd already clocked the several 'NO TALKING' signs that hung with forbiddance sparsely along the walls and so held his tongue.

The room revealed was as a plush, Victorian affair. Several armchairs were situated artfully around, a coffee table the centre of their correlation. Demure, decorous curtains dressed the wall length windows, shielding light from the dim zone, and lamps littered the room, lit listlessly. A rug, extravagant and royal red yielded gently under their footsteps as they entered.

Mycroft sat as if he was a monarch addressing his subjects. His elbows were placed on the arms of the chair, fingers interlaced in front of him. His expression was stern, but not overtly so. His eyes followed the pair as they advanced.

With a voice like liquid silk, the elder Holmes crooned, "_Do_ sit down." Smugness practically radiated from him in waves.

"I thought we couldn't talk-?" John began, taking his place in an armchair woven with intricate designs.

"This is a private room, Mr Watson, where we may do as we please." Mycroft's smile grew as he spoke, as if the sound of his own voice pleased him greatly. "I must ask, do your nurses know you are out of your bed so soon?"

John's eyes flickered up and back to Sherlock, whom was lingering erratically behind John's armchair, eyebrows drawn in apparent confusion where he appeared to be picking dejectedly at a loose thread.

"I discharged myself," John explained. He raised a hand and tugged gently at one of Sherlock's, which rested on the back of his chair. The ivory digits twitched vigorously at the contact before pulling away. Sherlock's face was set in confused concentration, or as John had named it, 'the Deduction face'. Knowing better than to derail the train of thought Sherlock was working his way down, John lowered his hand.

Meanwhile, Mycroft gave a slow nod. "I see. "

"Cut to the chase, Mycroft," Sherlock bit suddenly, with all the withering tone of someone whom has long suffered. "You called us here to discuss something of importance."

"I called _you _here," Mycroft corrected, "and your arrival came six hours late. The traffic wasn't that bad, surely?"

"I was waiting for John," Sherlock replied. His grey irises flitted restlessly towards the sandy top of John's head and back.

Mycroft gave a quick, wry half-smile. His brother's infatuation for the little army doctor was amusing to say the least. "Of course."

Long, slender arms like vines slid and encircled John's shoulders, and a warm face was pressed and nuzzled into the back of his head. Sherlock's voice was muffed now as he spoke, John's hair invading his mouth.

"I take it you have news on Moriarty, brother."

Leading to the side, Mycroft unlocked his iPhone from where it lay on an adjourning table. He read from the screen, face illuminated in the pale light.

" 'We have Moriarty imprisoned and within our power. ETA four hours.' " He ran a thumb along the screen, almost thoughtfully. "It would seem since you returned, our illusive criminal's reign is finally at an end. We have the full cooperation of the European and American Governments in bringing Mr Moriarty's association with terrorist groups to a halt, and we have gleaned the locations of over two hundred of his recruitment camps from our captured assemblage."

Before Mycroft could continue his narration, John cut in swiftly.

"And, my dad?" He queried.

"In safe hands," John didn't miss the quirked eyebrow sent in Sherlock's direction.

"I've _told _him," Sherlock breathed, answering an unsaid question. Suddenly, John was hit with the paranoia that Sherlock's position meant his face was purposefully unseen to John's eye.

"Told me what, exactly?"

The answer followed hastily, "That your father-" An ample pause. "-shot Moran."

John's face crumpled once more, a cringe barely concealed. It just wasn't sinking in, no matter how many times it was repeated; Moran couldn't be dead. It was not possible, surely? But the sincerity of Sherlock's voice…

"I should remind you that your father's safety resolves your debt with Moriarty; you are free from his power." Mycroft's tact was outstanding, changing the subject as he watched John's expression cloud. He could have smiled outright at the expressive switch in John's features at this: his eyes brightened and his chin lifted.

"You mean I don't have to work for him anymore?"

"You are free to do whatever it is you see fit." came Mycroft's haughty reply, one that sent the arms surrounding John's shoulders in a protective gesture to tighten momentarily. It was only by sheer force of will that John refrained from an implication that what he would be _doing_ was, in fact, Mycroft's brother before laughing at his own wit.

"Now. If you'll excuse me for a moment," Mycroft began to rise from his armchair – struggling slightly to heave himself from the furnishing, "I arranged for a celebratory tea to be sent here and it would appear the kitchen staff have forgotten."

"God forbid your cakes be left unserved," Sherlock snorted, a blast of breath cascading along the length of John's neck. They both shivered with suppressed laughter, much to Mycroft's annoyance. With a final glance behind him, he sauntered across the Victorian rug and made his way out of the room.

It was only once he had left did the iPhone situated on the table give a meagre _ping._

In a flash, Sherlock was before John, the iPhone within his grasp, tapping furiously as he typed out the password. It was simple enough; Mycroft's fingertips had left a faint residue about the screen; it was only a matter of putting those numbers in order. Their mother's birth date, tut tut. How obvious and cringingly sentimental.

"Are you seriously about to read your brother's texts?" John snickered, watching the brunette in amusement. Sherlock gave him a jerk of his lips in reply before, with a flourish, opening the text.

_[Moriarty uncaptured; man imprisoned is a fake. He never left London. –A], _it read.

Before Sherlock could even turn to John in his shock, the lights of the Diogenes were suddenly shut off, and the room was plunged into darkness.

Through the unlit obscurity, a single voice crooned lyrically.

"Sorry boys! I'm _sooooo_ changeable!"


	21. The End

**A Frankly Huge A/N: Sorry this took forever – I was hoping to have this finished before my exams started, I had to rewrite most of Chapter 20 because my final version didn't save and I ended up uploading a draft by accident. I've uploaded the new version now; the beginning and end are the same, but John's stay at the hospital is a lot longer, as it would be – the poor thing. As this is the last chapter, I'll be going over the entire story soon, deleting the A/Ns and looking for typos, etc, so feel free to PM me if you've spotted any glaring grammatical/spelling mistakes.**

**And last but not least, thank **_**you**_** for sticking with this story. I've had such fun writing it and your responses have been the thing keeping me going. You're all **_**amazing**_**. **

**Thank you for reading. –Shnlock.**

**xxxxxx**

The entirety of the Diogenes seem to freeze in time. Distantly in the silence, Moriarty's voice echoed maliciously – a chilling reminder of his presence.

_He never left London._

Of course, of course, it all made sense. The sloppiness of the trails, how when they found who they thought to be Moriarty, his face was bloodied and beaten; swollen almost beyond recognition. Having found him in Beijing at the time, Sherlock had assumed that the Black Lotus gang Moriarty was linked too had finally given him what he had deserved after years of having to smuggle under his iron rule for decades. That now obviously wasn't the case. His face had been mutilated to cover up hi true identity. The man was probably nothing more than a mark picked up off the street due to his resemblance to the real Jim.

The same Jim currently cavorting around the Diogenes.

"_Sherlock_." John breathed, voice catching slightly in his throat, "Please, for the love of God, tell me that wasn't-"

The sound of a cut-off screech infiltrated the air.

"John? _JOHN_?"

All the hairs along Sherlock's arms stood to attention, prickling like static. He groped blindly forward, arms outstretched, towards the chair John was sat. All around him the room seemed to pulse and throb, emitting scuffles, the sound of a body being dragged, flesh on flesh, tangible sweat permeating the air. It came from all around; echoes and echoes of noise against the wooden panelled walls until it was obscured and abstruse – until it's source was unknown.

Stumbling, Sherlock reached the armchair, feeling his heart clench painfully as he felt the fabric connect with his fingers. To his left, he heard a door open and close heavily, before the sound of a key being turned in it's lock.

John… John was gone. He was alone in the dark.

"Oh, look at you dance, you are _adorable_!" came Moriarty's taunt, drawn out in endless echoes. Sherlock cocked his head, trying to attain the origin.

With a tone as steady as he could muster, Sherlock bellowed into the black inky air, "What have you done with John, Moriarty?" _Priorities_, he thought to himself, curling his hands into loose fists – the mere thought of John back with Moriarty sending his stomach churning violently. And he needed for Jim to keep talking. _Buy yourself time._

A long giggle. "Johnny boy? Don't you worry your pretty little head, _Shur-lock."_ Moriarty drawled, "I'm not going to _hurt_ him, oh no. I'm proposing a game."

"A… game?"

"Moran's dead, Sherlock, and since you and that _interfering_ brother of yours destroyed my Houses, I need someone to step up. I need a _protecctooooooorrr_!" He all but sang. Sherlock could hear the insufferable grin in his voice.

"I need your blonde baby. I broke John once, dear. It won't take much for me to do it again. He's such a good pet."

Sherlock hissed slightly. So John was just a pawn in his game. A catalyst to have Sherlock act to Moriarty's orders… Interesting.

"And the game?" Sherlock queried, still hovering by John's horribly-vacant chair.

"In the room there are three clues." Sherlock's head jerked upwards in interest. "Clues to murders, in fact – I know you do love those. If you can solve the clues, you get John back."

"Well, aren't you the Good Samaritan?"

"Get one wrong and I'll have you killed. Booooo-ring! You'll go up in flames, and little Johnny here will be all mine."

Sherlock gave a roll of his eyes, "Bad Samaritan." He bit, more to himself than anything.

"Just so." Moriarty's smugness was all but evident in his voice. "You have 12 minutes to solve the first clue, Sherlock. _Dance for me."_

There was a crackling sound, which Sherlock thought to be Moriarty covering up the microphone he was using to project his voice into the room. If he needed a microphone, the criminal could be anywhere; far, far away from the Diogenes with just his cronies nearby to do his bidding. Sherlock gave a smile. As much as he despised Moriarty, the man was intelligent. Too intelligent.

But Sherlock was more so.

Wrenching his mobile from his pocket Sherlock used the small panel of light illuminate the room, his heard pounding furiously in his chest, thumping rhythmically like the beat of a drum. For a moment he considered calling Mycroft to discover his whereabouts but stopped himself. Moriarty would surely call the Game off, should Sherlock receive outside help. His mobile still had internet connection though; three bars worth. That would have to do.

The first thing Sherlock saw was that there were several cabinets lining the walls, oaken and polished. They gleamed gently as Sherlock approached. He bent, mobile outstretched, and began to observe them.

Four bloodied groves ran from one cabinet to the other. Sherlock grinned.

The first clue.

_Nail marks, someone with short nails grabbing for purchase. Flecks of pink nail varnish around the groves; a woman then. If she had fallen, the lines would be smooth – a gradual fall, but the groves are jagged. She was dragged. _

He followed the lines to the edge of the second cabinet, noting how the groves deepened as they continued – signalling the woman's growing desperation. Sherlock crouched on his haunches, his sharp eyes easily catching the sight of a clump of hair placed dubiously close to the cabinets. A knowing smile grew across Sherlock's cheeks. The scenes were set ups, but clever ones. The clump of hair was likely from the victim – her attacker must have dragged her with a fist in her hair. The flecks of skin and blood surrounding the hair helped his hypothesis; - the attacker must have ripped some hair from her skull in the process.

"Nine minutes, Sherlock…"

Jerking with surprise, Sherlock snapped out of his revere and glanced around the room. So Moriarty was still watching him. No doubt gleefully. The countdown was meant as a distraction to send Sherlock into a panic. He turned his attentions back to the cabinet.

A single rivulet of blood ran from the cabinet top down its side, so Sherlock followed it down, eyes narrowed intently. Oh, oh, brilliant. Oh, this was too good. The trail of blood ended with an almost illegible scrawl, scratched into the bottom of the cabinet.

"_Rache._" Sherlock murmured, rolling the word across his tongue.

_Rache; German for 'revenge' or the name used for hunting dogs in the Middle Ages. Could be missing a letter? Rachet? No. Rachel. _Rachel._ She scratched the name into the cabinet with her fingernails. She was dying, it would have hurt. Most people in their last moments think to their families, to their God_- oh_._

_Oh. She was clever, yes._

_Rachel; the favourite wife of Jacob in the Bible who died during childbirth to her son, Joseph. _

"Seven minutes, Sherlock…"

Slowly, Sherlock rose to his feet. He opened the internet browser on his phone and set to work, an ever growing sense of pride swelling within his chest. This was too easy. With a few select, rapid flicks of his thumb, he found the appropriate web-page, before holding it above his head, towards any cameras that were facing him.

"Jenna Adams." He announced pointedly into the darkness.

For a moment, nothing happened, and Sherlock felt thick panic rise in his throat. Did he get it wrong? Was there something he could have missed? The sudden lack of noise sent fissions of fear down his spine.

"Oh, _well done_." Echoed an Irish voice in the dark. "And with four minutes to spare, I'm impressed. But you're not finished yet, Sherlock. You've got the victim… but _who killed her_?"

"Jenna Adams died during childbirth to her son Joesph." Sherlock explained, having gleaned that information from his mobile. "But the scratches say otherwise. The cabinets are old, but they're not from the Diogenes. They've been polished within an inch of their lives; the Diogenes is clean, but it's not that clean." He scoffed gently. "The cabinets are from Jenna's house. She gave birth to her son in her home; the only person present was her husband, Richard Adams, who, if you believe the internet, was abusing her. Jenna must've fought with her husband, the stress sending her into an early labour. After she gave birth to her son, her husband killed her – most likely via a blunt force to the head, _but_ he told the ambulance crew he had called she died giving birth. No autopsy was done, and her murder remained unacknowledged. Case closed."

"Oh, that was too easy," Moriarty purred, "I'm going to give you eight minutes to solve the next one, my dear. Chop, chop."

xxxxxx

Mycroft stormed from the kitchens, positively infuriated. Having fired several slacking staff members whom he had found neglecting their positions in favour of watching the Champion League Final or something of the sort, he rearranged his nuptials to be sent to the private room where he knew Sherlock and John to be expecting him.

A tap to his shoulder had Mycroft pivoting on his heels.

One of the Diogenes staff stood before him, a silver tray balanced precariously on one had. The tray held a cream coloured note, '_Mr M. Holmes'_ inscribed across its length in an elegant hand and beside it – an ornate ivory letter opener. Mycroft dipped his head in thanks and took the envelope from its tray. Hm, Bohemian. With the letter opener in his other hand, he cut it open and unsheathed the letter. Its message was simple.

[Peek-a-boo! I see you! –JM]

Before Mycroft could even widen his eyes in shock he was aware of approaching footsteps behind him. Raising his head, his stomach doubled over in horror.

Two men clad in black uniforms baring the Moriarty insignia were dragging, or trying to drag, a thrashing, enraged, _gagged_ John Watson across the threshold into the Visitor's Room. The blond had hooked his foot to the doorframe, and was bucking ferociously – trying to throw the men off him, emitting blasts of breath through his flaring nostrils, eyes narrowed in concentration, not wide in panic. From one of his wrists dangled a handcuff.

Mycroft was quick to react. He turned back to the stunned servant, whose mouth was hung wide open.

"Code red." He stated simply, breaking the most sacred rule of the Diogenes, but he found himself uncaring. If John was in danger, so was his brother. And damn everyone if a singular rule was going to stop him from helping them. The servant choked in surprise before nodding repeatedly, dropping the tray and sprinting down the coridoor to sound the alarm.

As soon as he was gone, Mycroft advanced on the Visitor's room. One of Moriarty's men was attempting to pry John's foot from the doorframe, but John lashed out and the man pulled back nursing a bloody nose – a scream of pain permeating the air. Mycroft grinned viciously, tightening his grip around his umbrella and wrenching the handle upwards out of its sheath to reveal a glinting rapier.

This was sure to be fun.

xxxxxx

"Two minutes left, Sherlock."

The third murder was ridiculous. Sherlock could feel himself teetering on the edge of hysteria. There was a beeping now, a constant reminder of the time he had trickling away.

There was no possible motive, no murder weapon, and no conclusions to be drawn. He had to be missing something, there _had_ to be something he had overlooked. Drawing his breath in heavy pants, he threw himself back across the room to assess the scene from further back, hoping to gain a new angle.

"I think I'll have John re-named." Moriarty was teasing him now. "'John'. It's so _pedestrian. _You can't swing a cat in London without hitting a John. _Sebastian, _see now that's the sort of name he needs. Maybe I'll just call him Sebby." A round of giggles. "Sebby Mark Two."

"A little silence right now would be marvellous." Sherlock hissed, head flicking rapidly from side to side, now on all fours with his elbows bent, chin resting on the thick rug.

"Then I'll leave you with this, darling. One minute leeeeeeft!"

What was it? What was he missing? Think, _think_. The stain on the rug was blood, of course it was. It'd been overlooked due to its already garishly red colour. But that was it. There were no other marks, no tears or footprints or hidden weapons or traces of hair or skin. Nothing. Frustration reaching paramount Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and kicked at the curled corner of the rug, letting out a long, anguished cry. He bent and in his rage ripped the rug upwards, throwing it across the room before falling to his knees, head against his chest.

He couldn't do it.

_30 seconds._

It was over. There was nothing he could do but except his fate. He picked up his phone from where it had fallen not far from where he sat, and unlocked it, finding John looking back at him. The picture he had as his background was the one John had sent him two weeks back, when he was still in hospital. It had been taken by a nurse, and showed John bent double in hysterical laughter, head turned to face the camera as finished off the moustache he was drawing on the lax face of a sleeping Mycroft. John's eyes were crinkled adorably in the way Sherlock loved, his cheeks pink with withheld laughter. Sherlock found himself chuckling. Tears were running down his face, but he couldn't help himself.

But it was the laughter that made him see. It made his mobile tilt backwards and illuminate the room once more.

Where he had ripped away the rug, exactly where the stain had been was a gaping hole in the floorboard.

_Ten seconds._

Sherlock delved into hiding place, practically tearing at the masses of documents that settled there.

_Nine seconds._

Pulling the first sliver of paper out, he ran his gaze over it feverishly.

_Eight seconds._

Names, names. Threats. Words. Blurring. Echoing. Information.

_Seven seconds._

Text messages. Threats. Threats. Blackmail. Dukes. Duchesses. Importance.

_Six seconds._

Can't breathe. Crown jewels. Moriarty. Murder. Not complying.

_Five seconds._

"_I hope you like the photo!_" John had sent him. _"I call my masterpiece, 'Go Compare Man'." _

_Four seconds._

John laughing. John crying. John saying they'd grow old together. John holding his hand when he was nervous.

_Three seconds._

"The Duchess of York's servant, death by a stab wound to the upper body."

_Two seconds._

"He was blackmailing the Duchess with his knowledge of her lover to gain money for his family."

_One second._

John, please know I love you. I love you_. I love yo_-

xxxxxx

John gaped, understandably, at the sight of the two men now lying in pools of their own blood. Mycroft was cleaning crimson liquid from his rapier with a handkerchief.

"_How_ did you-?"

"Fencing World Champion 1996, John." Mycroft answered smoothly, resheathing his rapier and pocketing the now dirtied handkerchief deep in the pocket of his well-pressed trousers.

"R-right. Right. Obviously. Obviously..."

"I'm not entirely useless, John, no matter what my brother may inform you." Mycroft smirked, stepping forward and grasping John's forearm to lead him forward.

"Moriarty is behind this," John began to blurt, untying the knot of his gag that now hung around his neck as they walked, "You got a text after you left, Sherlock- Sherlock opened it. It said Moriarty never left London."

"Then we have him right where we want him." Mycroft guided John down the maze of corridors, left, then right.

"Sherlock is still in the Visitor's room," it was clear now, to Mycroft, that John had settled into his Army-mode as adrenaline coursing though his veins, "they dragged me out before I could do anything and locked him in."

Mycroft snarled. It pained him to imagine Sherlock alone and at Moriarty's mercy. Sherlock was strong, but Moriarty was cruel. Psychopathic. Unpredictable.

"Excuse me, sirs?"

Both Mycroft and John looked up in tangent as a heavily armed security guard sprinted towards them, panting heavily from exertion.

"Yes?" Mycroft queried.

"We found a bug in our systems, sir. We believe Moriarty is hacking our computers to control the speaker system."

"Our security levels are military grade, how the _hell_ did he-"

"Jones." John explained, a knowing smile on his face. "Liam Jones, he worked for Moriarty. He can hack anything, the bloke is a computer genius. He must be working for him again."

Mycroft nodded at this before turning back to the security guard. "Get that speaker system off line, no more communicating through them – I think it's safe to assume Moriarty can hear us so we'll have to speak as such. Have the building evacuated. All the men on the second floor need to be escorted out. Have cars on hand to get them as far away as possible."

"Yes, sir."

"And for the love of God, get Sherlock out of that room."

"Of course, sir."

The security guard turned and sprinted back the way he had come, disappearing around the corner. There was silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry, John." Mycroft said before he could stop himself, speaking low so as to keep their conversation private. "I should never have given Moriarty information on your mother. My emotions made me irrational. Sherlock means more to me than I let on. You are a more than worthy partner for my brother."

John blinked rapidly in his surprise. "You don't need to apologise, honestly-"

"No, John, I do." Mycroft interrupted smoothly. "I don't know what I would do if anything happened to Sherlock, and I know for a fact he cares more for you than he does for his own life. What I did, I did without thinking. Hurting you is hurting Sherlock. I know that now."

"He… he means a lot to me too, you know." John confided. "I mean, I love him, y'know?"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to look taken aback. The elder brother cocked his head to the side, "Have you told him?"

"No, no I-" John swallowed thickly. "I was hoping to tell him when he got back, but then we came here and…" Trailing off, John rubbed the bridge of his nose. He hardly wanted to be having this conversation at a time like this.

"I see."

"_Sir_!" Roared a voice. John and Mycroft looked up in tangent to see the same security guard returning around the corner, face now red and slick with sweat.

"We checked, sir. The private room is empty. There's no one in there."

"What do you mean, 'no one in there'?" Mycroft spat, face contorting in pure anger. He stormed forward to confront the guard. "He can't have _vanished; _are you and your men blind as well as incompetent?"

"Sir, honestly, the door was wide open and-"

"I don't care, you ignorant fool. I want you out searching my brother and I want him brought here."

"But, sir-"

"No _buts_!" Mycroft roared. "You will do as I say or I will make sure you never get another job for as long as you live, is that clear?"

"Sir, please! Just-"

"Just what? Pretend the entirety work staff here isn't made up of blithering half-wits? Get to work or I _swear _I'll-"

"Sir!"

"_No_! I will not listen to one more second of your idiocy-"

"Sir, he's right there!"

Mycroft's mouth snapped shut with an audible _clink. _He turned, slowly, and caught the sight of John's ridiculous smile, grinning at something behind him.

"Did you miss me?" Sherlock crooned.

It only took two seconds for John to reach him, and for them to be in each other's arms. Just like they should be. They clung to each other, desperately, ardently, Sherlock whispering endearments into John's ear.

"I solved it, John, I solved it for you." He was saying, burying his face into the top of John's hair, heart in his throat. "I solved it."

John lifted his head from Sherlock's shoulder to press his lips to Sherlock's neck, breathing in his scent. "And Moriarty?" He asked.

"Gone." Sherlock breathed. "He's gone, John. We played a game and I won." _Only just,_ Sherlock almost added, remembering just how close he had been to never seeing John again. Never seeing anyone again, for that matter. Moriarty's mocking laugh at his tears may have cut right through him, but it was worth it.

He'd beaten the consulting criminal. Just.

"Thank God you did," John exhaled a gust of hot air over Sherlock's collarbones. "I happen to need a lanky bastard to do my washing up."

Sherlock shook with laughter, cradling the back of John's head gently. "You can't exactly do it yourself, can you? You wouldn't reach the sink."

"Oh, OK, just make fun of my height why don't you." John snorted playfully, his hands now resting on the juts of Sherlock's hips. "If I didn't love you I'd bloody well punch you. I'm not even _that_ short, you're just abnormally-"

"John, you… love me?"

It took a few seconds for John's brain to get back up to speed, and the full realisation of what he had just said caught up with him. He pulled away from Sherlock, a shocked expression plastered across his face.

"_Yes_! I mean no- I mean- oh God, I'm sorry I-"

"John, you really do have a way with words."

"Shut up, Sherlock I'm trying my best here!"

"Then I'd hate to see your worst."

"I hate you."

"I love you too, John."

The smile that they both gave resulted in giving each other ended in a long, breathy kiss that neither of them wanted to stop. And it didn't.

Not until Mycroft cleared his throat and suddenly it all become very awkward.

xxxxxx

Jim Moriarty was nowhere. The consulting criminal had sunk back into the shadows, tail firmly between his sickly pale legs. Distantly, Sherlock believed the silence to be too good to be true. Moriarty was a proud creature; it would be paining him to have lost. He would return. But Sherlock would be ready for when he did.

After John's rather impromptu declaration of love, the two of them had been questioned and released, and sent on their way. Back to Baker Street. Back home.

Mrs Hudson had burst into tears at the sight of them. John later joked it was at the sight of Sherlock's face, but Sherlock remained ardent that it was John's smell that had set her over the edge. Mrs Hudson made them both cakes, and the argument was lost amidst the sight of John proving he could indeed eat an entire cake to himself. Sherlock pretended to be disgusted, but ruined his façade by licking the icing from John's lips before he could stop himself.

That night was spent on the sofa, before it migrated to the bedroom. The two of them were too tired to act on any of their desires but instead held each other close. John told Sherlock he loved him – properly this time, and Sherlock said it back. When they fell asleep, they still had those words lingering on their lips; ready to be said again and again when they woke up.

John was being held permanently hostage in Sherlock's heart; and Sherlock in his.

But… neither of them really minded.

_-the end-_


End file.
